Downtime
by TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: Sherlock was confronted with numerous dangerous situations during hunting down Moriarty's web. This is a collection of H/C scenes from his 'downtime', in which Sherlock is hurt, in pain, and/or desperate. At least Mycroft and Molly take care of Sherlock, but sometimes but there are chapters with John. Whump, Angst, H/C, medical issues, medical treatment, drugs etc.
1. Chapter 1 - The Lab - Part 1

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

 _This a collection of scenes about what Sherlock endured during his hunt. Those were parts of other stories or chapters I had written and planned to add, but later on they didn't fit in or I decided not to risk overloading the story with too much H/C or 'hurt Sherlock'._

 _Which means I didn't write them to be standalone H/C things, therefore the background is missing. I hope you don't mind. For me it was a practise in empathy and working through some of my issues. Some of this might contain graphic hurting because I needed to work through bad memories in a way._

 _So for various reasons, those landed in a folder on my hard drive named 'fit nowhere' where I dumped all those parts. I considered adding them in an appendix with 'deleted chapters' for 'Define Vulnerability' but decided against it now I will post those in this extra story because I know there are some people out there who might like this. Therefore this is probably a H/C and 'whump-dump' without much background, but they all have a resolution, kind of._

 _._

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 **The Lab**

 **Part 1**

It takes an enormous effort to open his eyes.

They hurt, the lids are ridiculously heavy and as soon as he tries to move he realises he is lying on cold concrete, on his side.

What happened?

…

He can't remember.

His head is pounding fiercely, he feels weak, tries to lick his lips and gulp, but his mouth is so parched he can't.

He tries to roll into a supine position and winces when more pain explodes in his back and all his joints.

Stay put and try to gather information about the surroundings.

He once more tries to open his eyes and to his surprise he isn't surrounded by dark.

He is lying in what must be a large warehouse, a quite clean and white warehouse.

It's odd, isn't it?

But his vision is disturbed and he can't even see the walls clearly.

Maybe it isn't a warehouse?

How did he get here?

He tries to blink away the liquid that additionally disturbs his eyesight. His eyes hurt from the light.

Once more he tries to roll to his back, this time it works but he moans in pain, the sound echoes ominously in the large cold room around him.

His trachea feels like sandpaper, every breath scratches it more raw.

Letting his eyes roam around his surroundings brings two rows of laboratory benches to his attention.

They are full of equipment, but he is too far away and his eyesight too disturbed to see exactly what they were used for.

Some unknown desperation creeps up his spine and he desperately tries to fight it.

This was not normal.

He had not just been knocked out by somebody, he felt too bad for just a bit of a concussion.

Had he been drugged?

Was this a meth lab?

No, those usually looked not like _this_ , but there was no reason why they couldn't.

He rebukes his mind for wasting time.

His first priority should be to get out of here.

Get up!

Get out!

He tries, but fails even to lift his arm to push himself up, his body is trembling in quite an disconcerting way. He is extremely weak, something felt disturbingly wrong.

But he couldn't remember.

.

He must have blacked out because he woke again, the pain was intense, but at least this time he knew who he was.

He blinked in slow motion and wondered how much time he had before someone would come and…

He tried to remember…

He had left London - and John - to hunt down Moriarty's web, he was working on that task for some months now, but how had he come here…?

Where was _here_?

He tried to use his senses.

The large room smelled of chemicals, which meant it was regularly used for this purpose, which made no sense, no chemist would use a room this big as a lab, it was far too difficult to follow safety precautions and procedures in an area this large.

Which meant illegal lab.

Of course what other reason was there for him to be here?

Something like a bright jolt struck his tired mind, he flinched.

He was here as a lab assistant, had infiltrated whatever organisation this was. The memories were vague but slowly coming back.

Carefully he tried to roll back to his side, it was too much work to breathe in a supine position, but any movement at all proved to be still very difficult.

He managed finally, used his left hand to stabilise himself on the ground.

Where it touched the white painted concrete it felt odd… the ground was covered in a white powder.

That can't be good.

He sucked in air in horror, which was probably the most stupid thing he could do, inhaling more of the unknown substance.

What was it?

Was he feeling so sick because of this substance?

He tried to breathe as shallow as he could while simultaneously detecting any smells in the air, but his nose was clogged.

Was that why he had problems breathing?

He was now in a slightly different position than before and spotted a phone a few metres away from his head, it looked damaged or old.

He needed to reach it, it could be useful.

Was it his one?

He couldn't see enough to decide.

But before he could think of how to minimise his contact to the ground, a squeaking noise could be heard and he turned his head in the direction of what must be a heavy metal door opening.

In the distance something was moving, but his vision was so blurry he couldn't see what it was, logic dictates it must be a human being.

It moved closer, clad in yellow, but the movement pattern was off somehow, as was the form.

He tried to squeeze he eyes to see better, but it was no use.

It was also hopeless to try to escape, he couldn't even lift his head. He looked around for a weapon and down his body to see if he was carrying, to his surprise he found he was wearing a lab coat.

His body was too numb to search it by trying to sense a heavy weight somewhere that might indicate a gun.

What was he thinking?

Even if he _had_ a gun, he couldn't even lift his arms to take aim, he felt so utterly helpless.

The figure now started to move faster towards him and with horror he realised it was wearing a hazmat suit.

This was bad.

The misshaped creature leaned down to him, and started to speak in odd muffled sounds, distorted by the additional breathing mask it wore under the large clear face shield and positive pressure hood.

Male, mid forties, looked educated.

Was he here to kill him?

The monstrosity started speaking, but he wasn't able to understand.

Which language was that?

With a rush of adrenaline he realised that this was probably his best chance of survival, but it also underlined the fact that whatever was spilled on the ground was not harmless.

"Ms'ome?"

Had that been his name?

He was undercover, why should someone know his name?

Panic rose and he tried to move, maybe they had found out who he was and had come back to kill him or to torture him, keep him alive until they had what they wanted?

"Stay calm, we have a contamination unit ready and your brother is outside. I'm with the MI5 decontamination unit… Sir, we found him, he's alive. Scene contaminated with unknown substance."

A massive wave of relief flooded Sherlock in such an overwhelming rush that his senses left him floating.

.

He didn't know how long he was out, but movement brought him back to reality, sickening, wobbling movement.

He was carried - and the bright daylight hurt his blinking eyes so much he tried to shield his eyes with his hands.

Someone deftly grabbed his arm before he could manage.

"Close your eyes, stay calm. We'll take care of it in a moment, Sir," a female voice informed him.

"Sir, do you know what chemical you were exposed to?"

He knew, or better, he knew he should know.

It was there, in the back of his mind, but he couldn't remember.

He blacked out once more.

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 _A/N:_

 _Please review._


	2. Chapter 2 - The Lab - Part 2

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

* * *

 _._

 **The Lab**

 **Part 2 - Decon**

He came to with a rush of panic, something was in his eyes, on his face.

He tried to fight it, desperately, but was held down.

"Don't move."

What was happening?

A wet cloth was on his face.

He struggled, but they held him down with even more force.

Where was he?

Water on his face - they were about to torture him.

The pressure changed, something plastic was pressed over his mouth and nose.

He needed to stay calm, assess the situation.

Think!

To his horror he felt fingers pry open his eyes and held them that way.

Then suddenly a constant stream of water was hitting his eyeballs, irritating them even more.

He'd drown.

He felt panic rise, tried to keep it down.

Not now!

His shoes and socks were removed.

Loud voices.

Chaos.

"We… to perform …wash, … calm down."

Voices faded in and out, disturbed by the gurgling water on his face.

Hands were everywhere, held or did something to his head, his chest, his hands, his feet.

He didn't want to allow them to see his panic but it was like being dragged down to hell, into endless suffering.

He tried to get them off, but was pinned in place, which heightened the agitation even more.

Eyes still held open, water flowing over his face.

He struggled to breathe but then found he suddenly could.

A _mask_ was pressed down on his face.

He could breathe…

"We are trying to help, calm down… We need to perform an eyewash."

It took some long moments until that sentence reached his panicked mind.

They must be trying to clean him, not trying to kill him, then.

Finally, he remembered he must be in decon.

Water soaked through his clothes, he tried to stop struggling but his body seemed unimpressed by his understanding of the situation.

"Bring his brother, he's freaking out."

They were trying to help.

The adrenaline and the sensations of being tortured drove the idea away again, the panic remained and his body continued to react to the foreign touch and assault.

Stupid transport.

"Mr Holmes, we'll help you shower now," a female voice informed.

Right, his brother must be here.

Why was Mycroft not able to shower on his own?

Voices were screaming orders all around him, the general atmosphere of panic and pain and distress made him sick.

While he still tried to understand what was happening the irresistible mass of cold gloved hands was pulling and dragging at his clothes.

No John to assure him it would be over soon… He wanted John to be the one who treated him.

His own need shocked him.

Since when was he so… sentimental?

Maybe it was because of his condition.

He felt metal on his shin while water continued run over his body and face.

Tugging at his clothes.

Suddenly the water touched his skin directly, no fabric in between, on the whole length of his body.

He realised he was completely naked, in a wet puddle on a cold wet board.

Trauma shears, they had cut away all this clothes within moments.

Where was all this water coming from?

They started to wash him down even more ferociously, with soft sponges.

His arms were lifted and moved and it went on and on and on, the water was still forced into his eyes.

He couldn't see, couldn't hear properly, could only feel the sensory assault to his transport.

He hated being touched. Only John was allowed to do this.

Only John's touch was neutral.

It didn't stop, went on and he became more desperate by the minute.

Then he remembered safety instructions, which said eyewashes should continue for fifteen minutes… as well as body washing to get rid of chemicals.

He had lost his sense of time, it felt like an eternity.

But probably only three or four minutes had passed yet.

Another eternity to go, then.

He didn't want to feel this any longer.

"Sir, don't hold your breath… come on, you need to breathe."

He was busy enough fighting his panic and the horrible sensations, he couldn't concentrate on breathing on top of it all.

His chest was tight and hurting.

For the first time in his life he wished to pass out.

"Going into shock, hurry up."

Someone had fingers on his neck, monitoring his pulse, for some reason this touch bothered him suddenly even more than the water running over his eyes.

Their touches were rough but thorough, manhandled him to lie on his side, than the other, then back to on his back.

He couldn't handle this, his mind wanted to flee.

Then the eyewash stopped and something covered his face; they started washing his hair and fingers and feet, when they reached his private parts he started to struggle again.

Another hose down with more pressure followed, he found it hard to breathe.

Sharp cold oxygen moved in and out - they were helping him to breathe, bagging him.

Then it was suddenly all over.

"Wrapping him up now," someone screamed.

"More contaminated victims coming in," another voice yelled in the distance.

There had been other people around?

Then - from one moment to the other - he was covered in some extremely soft and slightly warm blankets, it felt improperly good.

They tugged them around and under him, even around his head; only his face, still covered with the oxygen mask, remained free.

"Clean, now, Sir," someone reported.

He was lifted from the plastic gurney onto a warm soft surface that seemed to embrace his form and hug him from behind.

It felt a lot safer but the stress from a few minutes before was so profound he found he was trembling all over.

"Sherlock, you're okay. It's alright. Stay awake."

His muddled brain needed several moments to realise it was Mycroft's voice he was hearing, it was close to his face and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He must be imagining it.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Mycroft _was_ there.

He was safe.

That was if the chemical he was exposed to wouldn't kill him.

"You saved the whole city, you realise that? You prevented the components from mixing by the timer started apparatus, which would have resulted in a deathly concoction."

What was he talking about?

"Sherlock, concentrate on what I'm saying."

What for? It was nonsense.

Movement.

The ceiling changed colour over his head.

Tents, they must have established an emergency hospital.

The movement stopped and they started to unwrap him.

By now he was pretty fed up with being touched and manhandled and he just wanted to be left alone.

"Don'touch'e," he grunted.

"Sorry, Sir," a new muffled voice said.

Nevertheless he was partially unwrapped and hissed about the cold slipping under the blankets, but it was immediately replaced by warmness… and a sharp prick on the back of his right hand, then another one on his inner left arm.

Once more many hands were on him, but they spread warmth and he heard himself groan softly when warm liquid was pumped into his veins.

It gently started to heat him up from within.

"Stay awake, Sherlock. Look at me," Mycroft ordered.

Sherlock managed to pry open his swollen eyes and saw Mycroft was also wearing a hazmat suit.

It looked ridiculous, but he could see his brother was wearing his shirt and waistcoat inside it.

Sherlock's eyes moved to his hands, checking if he had his umbrella with him, which was utterly preposterous, but one small tiny detail of reality he tried to cling to.

The umbrella wasn't there and it kind of shattered his world, made it all much worse.

He felt wetness in his burning eyes, running down his temple.

Then, without warning, someone else leaned over him, forced his eyes open wide once more and dropped something burning first into one, then into the other eye and Sherlock's body started to fight the procedure.

For god's sake, couldn't these people have the decency to warn him, tell him what they were doing?

When he was unceremoniously held in place and urged to calm he realised he had started flailing and the warmth was falling away.

Sharp words from Mycroft flew through the air, but they weren't directed at him.

His eyes hurt… his whole body was bathed in burning pain.

"Sir, your eyes are irritated, keep them closed," another unknown voice said, but he didn't care to find out if it was addressing him.

The warmth returned, tight and relaxing.

Then everything suddenly fell away, voices faded in and out and Mycroft was urging him to stay awake.

He was dimly aware he was losing consciousness, but he couldn't care less and he didn't even try to fight it.

Mycroft was there, he had resources available that meant good care, he could check out. It was the best care he could get in John's absence.

He allowed the darkness to swallow him.

.

"Come on, wake up, Sherlock," Mycroft woke him.

He blinked.

His headache was unnerving, his skin and eyes hurt and his vision was hazy.

"What happened?" he croaked, a moment later, he remembered himself.

Mycroft wasn't wearing the hazmat suit any longer and they were in a private hospital room of what was probably a secret facility.

"You destroyed the machine that was supposed to mix the dry components, resolve them, and then slowly release them into the water supply. You saved thousands of lives. It turned out the separate chemicals were not lethal, though very irritating when one comes in direct contact with them. Luckily you deactivated the intake for one but when you failed to do the same to the other you used brute force and simply emptied the container so nothing could get into the water."

Sherlock huffed, he still couldn't remember those events, his memory started when he woke up in the warehouse, though it felt more like a dream than a proper memory.

He found the bed controls and lifted the head end so he was more upright.

"The content spilled into the hall. When the timer controlled vents opened nothing was there to go through. Good thinking," Mycroft explained.

"I am a chemist, I probably calculated the risk and decided it was the best option," his voice was only a whisper and he was very groggy.

"You did, you told me when you called me. Although, by then you weren't sure what they were. This could have killed you, dear brother."

"I called you?"

"Yes. Before you did it, asked for a decon unit and… Well, queen and country are grateful, although I of course had to make sure your name wasn't mentioned."

"Oh, great, thanks," Sherlock said with sarcasm.

"I guess you'll be delighted to hear that you'll make a full recovery. You'll be out of here in about two days. They want to make sure there won't be any complications and that it is completely out of your system."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The last thing he needed right now were more foreign people and their intolerable touches. He'd been touched enough to last for a lifetime yesterday.

Was it yesterday?

"You were out for about twenty hours," Mycroft deduced his question.

He wanted to sleep and go home.

… Right, there was no home any longer.

That realisation not only made his insides cramp, it also brought forth a wave of intense exhaustion and something else that didn't feel good, but he failed to identify it.

He closed his eyes, it was too much work to keep them open

"Sherlock, get some rest. You have worked hard these past weeks and are suffering from fatigue. It will do no good if you go on with this without being properly rested. Have a break, gather some strength," Mycroft advised, his tone not as insufferable as usual.

When he stood up Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"Rest."

His brother's tone was _caring_ and Sherlock stared at him, he could see that the recent events had left their marks on him, too. He was worried, had feared for Sherlock's life.

Sherlock saw the wrinkles in his suit and realised his sibling had sat there for a long time, maybe since he had been brought here?

"Don't look at me like that."

Mycroft buttoned his jacket and took his umbrella, "See you tomorrow."

Sherlock deduced from the tired pace and the slightly hunched posture that he must have been with him the whole time. Though the suit was a different one than the one he had worn inside the hazmat suit.

Mycroft briefly looked back before he stepped out, nodding at him.

Tired as he was, he slipped back into sleep only moments after the door closed.

.

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 _A/N:_

 _I am not a chemist and have no idea what chemical Sherlock could have been exposed to that fits my needs for this storyline. If there is anyone out there who knows, I'd be delighted to be PMed, otherwise the chemical remains fictional._

 _Sorry if anyone expected me to solve this. I thought it wasn't really important to do that, though I would have done more research if this had been a vital part of my 'Define vulnerability' story from which's storyline I removed this, but since I decided against using it there I didn't do the research, although I read and watched a lot about decontamination procedures._

 _Please review._


	3. Chapter 3 - Cherry blossom

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

...

* * *

...

 **Cherry blossom**

Sherlock was on his way to finally meet Mrs. Heinrichs.

He walked out of the Sakuranomiya Station in Osaka and headed towards Kema Sakuranomiya Park, it was near dusk and he was supposed to meet the German contact in an area that was well known for good dining and high quality leisure activities.

He had been in Japan for weeks now, it had taken ages to establish contact, the woman was obviously very careful. He was not sure why they had to meet in Japan of all places, but it had been a welcome change from his stay in the states and he had never been to Japan before, he was curious in fact.

Mycroft had bugged him twice not to enter the country and last night one of his minions had found him, told him about his brother's suspicion that the woman might have been 'exchanged'. It was ridiculous, Sherlock had spent weeks finding her and making sure he was neither tracked nor that she was the wrong person. Although he hadn't been able to find a picture, Mrs. Heinrichs was obviously very camera-shy and could afford high society protection as well as a premium privacy measures.

When he had been confronted with the suspicion he had of course double checked everything he had and contacted one of his own trustworthy sources to reassure the genuineness of his information.

In the end, he had decided to wear the extra slim bullet proof vest Mycroft had given him as a parting gift right after the fall. At first he had considered leaving it at home but finally he had packed it. Might be handy, it was also the latest light weight in protective gear and ridiculously pricy.

Right now he was wearing fancy spectacles and impersonating a businessman from Europe, involved in things that had grown over his head and in desperate need of a discreet way to make a lot of money.

It was the beginning of the cherry blossom season and the tourist run to the famous Osaka river side would start in one or two days, the blooming period was already starting, though still in a very early state. Since he was already here he'd walk down the famous riverside promenade as nearly every tourist would in the mild spring weather.

Since he started his hunt he barely had the chance to indulge in anything pleasant and the past months had been hard.

The unique smell was already there, so why not enjoy it. He certainly wouldn't get this chance again and was not in a hurry, it was still two hours until they would meet in one of the most expensive restaurants in town.

He hadn't expected the promenade to be this empty. Although the day had been sunny it was cold and he shivered.

He slowly walked down taking it in, Osaka was quite different from other big cities he had visited, it was a welcome change, as was the rich culture. He didn't like the colourful neon light areas full of people but the rest was enlightening.

He took in the smells and expected it to be a relaxing long walk; he would take a cab on his way back, going directly to the large train station to take a bullet train for Tokyo. Better not stay in town any longer than necessary nevertheless.

He also couldn't allow himself to let his guard down, no matter how relaxing and nice this was.

He had barely reminded himself of that when something pierced the side of his neck, at first he thought it must be a bee or some other insect, but when he tried to brush it away and look at it, it turned out to be surprisingly solid and a lot bigger than the average bee.

Wincing, he pulled it out of his skin and then from his shirt collar.

His eyes hadn't even made contact with the object when his vision started to get blurry.

He hurried to inspect the tiny thing in the dimming light.

When he saw what it was he cursed out loud.

"Oh, for God's sake!"

It was a tranquilliser dart.

He looked around to find the shooter.

In fact it was a model he was familiar with, MI5 equipment to be precise.

He felt a first wave of dizziness, the drug had been pumped under his skin and he knew he had probably a minute of consciousness left.

He leaned against the metal banister, trying to get his mobile out.

But his numb fingers failed to find the inner pocket of his suit jacket and only seconds later his vision was so blurred he barely realised that a black car was stopped right in front of him.

He wanted to curse again but his speech was already gone.

He fought the effect when two men exited the car and stepped closer.

He had barely time to think 'miscalculated, fast acting' when he dropped like a stone.

The last he saw were his capturer's feet before his eyes closed involuntarily and he was knocked out by the drug.

.

When he regained his senses the thing that woke him was the completely unfamiliar smell, with undertones of old books and sandalwood. He immediately remembered what had happened.

He had been kidnapped.

He opened his eyes and to his surprise found himself in a room that slightly resembled some rooms in the Diogenes Club… One half of the room was equipped with bookshelves and wall hangings, the other contained a desk with a state of the art shuttle desktop computer.

He was on a dark red chaise longue that looked at least a hundred years old. To his surprise he was alone in the room.

The expected headache was surprisingly mild.

Nevertheless he sat up slowly, and as he had feared it gained momentum.

A soft grunt escaped him the pain hit him.

He also felt his knee and elbow; he had fallen quite hard and was sure there was a large amount of bruises forming.

When he moved his feet over the edge and put them on the ground, he learned that the more he moved, the more places started to hurt. Someone had removed his shoes, but he was unable to spot them.

The glasses were gone, too.

Whoever had caught him was obviously unaware that he had visited Buckingham Palace dressed in a sheet and that the absence of shoes would not slow him down at all.

In a gesture of frustration and pain he weakly punched the upholstery at his side, but it was a pathetic and movement, a five year old could cause more damage with a fist than he could at the moment.

The strong tranquiliser was still in his system and he was sure that he wouldn't be successful if he tried to stand up.

He was shaky and for now decided not to try to get up.

The door was open and after a few moments a very British looking gentleman entered, followed by the same agent that had contacted Sherlock the day before.

Sherlock moaned unnerved and leaned back into the cushions.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes, I am Ambassador Harris, welcome to the British embassy," the man greeted.

Mycroft's minion only nodded.

When Sherlock huffed in annoyance, he continued to speak.

"I was already warned by your brother that your manners are not the best."

"Being knocked out and kidnapped tends to worsen them even more," Sherlock bit back, though he was sure Harris was not the one responsible, Mycroft must have set this into motion.

"I am very sorry, Mr Holmes, but your brother found out your contact was switched with an assassin, the woman is not an informant, she is a hired hit man. Since you refused to listen to reason last night when I contacted you to warn you, we had to consider other courses of action. You were in grave danger, therefore we extracted you," the agent explained.

"Extracted," Sherlock echoed and rolled his eyes.

" She would have killed you the moment she had the chance to touch you, via a slow acting poison. You were under observation and we needed to get you in the car quickly. Your brother doubted you'd have come with me without asking questions or resisting," the agent explained.

"Time was of the essence, we had only a two minutes window in which you passed a spot that was unable to see from where you were watched. We needed you to vanish into thin air. Sorry, just following orders."

"You're welcome to stay here for the rest of your stay, tea?" Harris offered.

"The plane will pick us up tomorrow morning."

"Where does my dear brother wants me to go?"

"He actually suggested asking you, but hinted that you probably want to go to Chicago as soon as you were finished here. Staying on Japan soil is the only thing he does not want you to do."

"I want to see the evidence."

"Sure," the agent handed Sherlock a tablet and turned to go. "We have to leave your luggage behind."

"Do you have my briefcase?"

"Yes."

"Then everything important is safe."

"Have some tea, I need to call your brother," the agent left.

...

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...

 _A/N:_

 _I'd love to get some feedback._

 _Constructive criticism welcome._


	4. Chapter 4 - San Francisco

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

* * *

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 **Present**

"Oh, back in London, we are? How was dangling from a cable car?"

Mycroft could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes behind his back, the younger man had just entered Mycroft's large office, although Mycroft didn't turn around, had just seen him enter out of the corner of his eyes. He was busy sorting documents at another table.

"I heard your mission went well, fooled vonBork and took two of his closest associates out of business. I assume he'll miss them dearly. Cover remained intact?"

Sherlock had stayed in the dark near the door but now stepped forward and into the light.

He started writing something on a small notepad and held it up for his brother to see.

Mycroft deliberately looked the other way, he was angry at his sibling.

"So where do you plan to continue? Lull vonBork in a false sense of security immediately or wait to let him realise how dire he is in need of your help?"

Mycroft waited for an answer, still didn't turn around, until an impatient grunt made him hesitate for a moment.

He moved over to a small side table and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass, well aware his brother would refuse if he offered.

"It was quite successful, your little plot… except the minor inconvenience of being grounded by some considerate hospital staff that tried to help you with your short… intermission."

He held up a glass without looking around.

Sherlock made 'no/headshake' sound.

"Oh, you still know how to make noises, that's reassuring. I was starting to wonder if your vocal chords might have taken damage."

Sherlock now stamped his foot angrily to get attention but Mycroft ignored him. Sherlock had done the same to him in the past weeks, had not bothered to keep him in the loop.

"I must say it is really refreshing to be able to speak more than three words without being rudely interrupted by the great Sherlock Holmes."

Something shattered into pieces behind him and he was sure Sherlock had just dropped a water glass that had been on a side table close to the door.

"I see, managing to be rude without a voice. Stop being so childish."

Now he turned around.

He had expected that Sherlock had a black eye or something, but what he saw made him wince and regret his teasing words from a few moments ago. He had been well aware Sherlock had been beaten, but that he refused to even try to speak was too ridiculous not to tease him.

One half of Sherlock's face was still covered in yellow-green bruises, otherwise it was quite pale, exhaustion was clearly visible and Mycroft wondered if he had eaten at all since the incident.

The older Holmes absolutely trusted his sibling to ignore his body's need simply because of the undignified way it has to happen after this kind of injury.

Sherlock held up the pad, it said 'not sorry'.

"I was well aware, even without you saying so."

He took a sip from his glass.

"I am surprised you haven't already tried to remove that _impairment_ yourself."

'Tried,' Sherlock wrote on the pad.

Mycroft winced.

It was time Sherlock stopped being his self and did what was good for his body, no matter how undignified it was.

Mycroft picked up a tablet computer, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. He understood why his brother behaved like this, he'd probably do the same.

"You can use this, there's special software that allows you to type things fast and show them in large letters. Should make things easier."

He held the thing out and after a long moment of hesitation Sherlock took it.

"I hope you'll understand that - now that you are here - it would be the right thing to get some rest, allow your body to adjust and take care of ingesting proper nourishment. Have you eaten anything else than coffee, milkshakes and soft drinks?"

Sherlock once more rolled his eyes.

"I take that as a 'no'. Please, Sherlock, get some rest, the upcoming mission will need full concentration, you can't afford to get out there again not fully healed. If your concentration is not at the peak of your power this might kill you, and you know how that will upset Mummy."

Resigned, Sherlock plopped into one of the luxurious armchairs.

"… and John."

Sherlock flinched and Mycroft knew he shouldn't have said that. But he needed proof… and this _was_ a reaction. In the beginning, Sherlock had rigorously denied that John would really suffer from his demise, but in the past months it seemed a slow understanding had started to set in.

Sherlock looked not only physically beaten, now he was even lost for anything else, verbal or not.

"Come on, let's get you to your room, get some sleep."

Mycroft gestured towards the door.

Sherlock needed a moment to understand he was pointing at the room they had furnished for him as soon as it was clear Sherlock would fake his death; they had brought some things and clothes over no one would miss.

With effort, Sherlock worked himself up again and without looking back he shuffled out of the room.

Mycroft looked after him, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

He had no idea how to handle this.

John would be able to do it, just by being John. Sherlock would follow his advice - at least partially - just because it was _John_ who was asking… and partially because John would kick his behind until Sherlock did it. But John was out of the picture.

Mycroft was painfully aware he wouldn't succeed with any of the two.

He briefly considered asking their mother to take care of Sherlock, but then abandoned the idea, Sherlock would be furious the more people he loved saw him in this pitiful state.

Well, at least no one would see or know the reason he wouldn't talk unless he decided to show them. As soon as the bruises were healed he'd look perfectly normal… besides from his pale and slightly gaunt features. He had visibly lost weight and the bones of his skull were definitely more prominent than usual, eyebrows and cheeks and chin. Even the three-day-beard wasn't covering that up properly, although it worked fine as a disguise. Mycroft had completely forgotten how Sherlock looked unshaven, since he never ever wore a stubble unless he was too sick to shave.

.

 **One week earlier.**

"Sir, we found him, the transmitter works fine, but an ambulance and police reached him first, they must have been alerted by an early jogger."

"Great," Mycroft mumbled into his secure line phone. It was 4.37 in the morning.

"He is transported to the nearest hospital, we are monitoring the radio traffic, he's unconscious and in a bad state but nothing life threatening, if treated soon," the agent on the other side explained.

"Where did you find him?"

"Golden Gate Park, small side path near the Botanical Garden."

"What was he doing there?"

"Sir?"

"Right, you don't know because you lost him."

"Sorry, Sir."

"Follow him, but don't blow his cover unless his life is in immediate danger."

"Last time I was there people were quite relaxed and colourful, blend in, loose the English accent, use public transportation. Be a tourist."

"Already did, Sir."

Anthea hid a laugh beside him.

Mycroft hung up and gave her an unnerved glance, well aware she had tried to make Sherlock take a colourful Hawaiian shirt to make him blend in as a tourist, as well. But Sherlock had refused and taken four pairs of slightly out of fashion suits, stating he wanted to impersonate a representative of a large British publishing company.

Anthea had created the necessary paperwork, a Facebook profile and other online paths that could be tracked easily for him, he was travelling under the name Altamont.

.

"Don't move, you'll get hurt."

The foreign voice did nothing to easy Sherlock's distress when he regained consciousness.

The fact that several hands were on him and that the last thing he remembered was being trying to hand over faked secret information to vonBorg's henchmen when another party interfered and started beating the three of them - including himself - into a pulp gave him an unpleasant adrenaline rush.

Was this a robbery?

Or where they here to kill them for the allegedly important information?

He couldn't see, the light was so bright he had to close his eyes again, although he tried to open them all that he gained was a stuttering blinking.

He tried to feel for the pen drive in his pocket but his hand was interfered with and held tight.

He sat up and started to fight them off before his mind had caught up with the situation and before his eyes were really able to see.

"Hold him down."

Voices started to yell in alarm around him.

The reverberation made him realise he was in a room, which was different than before, they had been outside.

Where had they brought him?

"Sir, you need to calm down, you might have a broken jaw and hurt yourself further."

Another voice, near to his ear, "It's alright, you're in hospital, relax, you're gonna be fine. We'll take good care of you."

The information took three seconds to sink in, in which he had fought his way off the gurney and opened his eyes.

About seven people in emergency paper gowns were around him, all wearing a more or less distressed expression on their faces, surprised he had just shoved them away and maybe also because he was able to stand.

Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

But the bright light pierced his eyes with intense pain, the pain in his jaw and chest registered and immediately after that hit him full force.

The next moment his knees gave in.

Someone lurched forward and caught him.

The pain was so intense he barely noticed.

It stunned him momentarily while they lifted him back onto a soft surface.

"Morphine," someone ordered.

"No," Sherlock moaned, a wave of panic renewed his willingness to fight them again.

"No," he repeated.

"Are you allergic, honey?"

He tried to nod but the pain it caused made his eyes tear up.

He moaned a conformation.

"Okay, calm down, it's all right," a warm and gentle female voice was close to his ear and a hand was on his shoulder, pressing down with care.

He blinked at her, repulsed by the faked empathy she displayed, or maybe it was professional care?

Divorced, almost fifty, two grown children, suffered severe illness recently, recovered.

Maybe genuine worry, then? Knowing how bad he felt?

Pressure on his hand and then the pain receded, almost instantaneously.

That was fast.

But the haze of opiates was missing.

He briefly closed his eyes with relief.

.

The next thing he knew someone was prying open his mouth, the touch was careful but brought another bout of pain.

He jerked his eyes open and found himself in a completely different setting.

The surroundings had changed, more sterile and obviously people were preparing surgical instruments.

"Sorry, we need to treat your jaw, it's not fully broken, but you have two fractures," a young doctor informed him, leaning into his line of sight.

"We'll give you something so you can have a little nap while we take care of everything. You also have two broken fingers and three fractured ribs. But you'll heal in no time, just let us do the work."

The constant reassurance of the same useless facts was increasingly getting on his nerves.  
Where was John?

Right, he was undercover, John thought he was dead, no one was there he could rely on, he was on his own.

He missed John's capable hands, being touched by strangers was so much worse.

"What's your name?"

"Altamont."

Even moving his tongue hurt.

"Okay, can you give us your emergency contacts? Don't speak, write it down,"

He wrote down 'no contacts, no family' and handed over the sheet of paper.

"Then you need to sign the consent form, please," a young nurse held out a clipboard. "And there's the information about the procedure, you also need to read it and sign it."

What? Since when did one need to do such things? Why was it all so complicated?

Oh, probably John had done all those things in the past.

He missed John, he was only gone for a few months and the fact that John was not with him on this journey was already an obstacle, as was the distracting sensation of loneliness.

No, it wasn't really loneliness.

It wasn't his problem that he was alone - he had been alone most of his adult life - it was the fact that _John_ was absent.

He missed 221b and John taking care of all day things... and of his minor injuries.

Strangers were inconvenient, not understanding a thing, communicating annoyingly slow.

"Sir, do you understand what I'm saying?"

He heard her, but it was all a bit much to take in.

Especially John's absence.

A moment later it registered that they wanted to put him under.

There was no way he'd allow them to.

Hastily he scribbled down 'local anaesthetic only!"

It was borderline unreadable.

"Sorry, Sir, but it is standard procedure. This will take time and be painful, I can't…"

It was all Sherlock needed to hear.

He couldn't stay here, surely the facture would heal on its own as long as he was careful - he had had fractured bones before, since nothing was really broken he'd go back to his motel and rest there, maybe organise some painkillers somewhere, shouldn't be that hard with his contacts to vonBork, he was probably already informed there had been an assault.

When he rose, he saw he was no longer in his shirt and dress trousers but in a hospital gown.

"Oh, for god's sake!" he hissed through his teeth and once more his jaw and then his ribs started to protest.

He clenched his jaw from the pain and it was the worst he could do because the pain it caused robbed him momentarily of orientation.

He was held once more and once more people were yelling. They must have been prepared after he first tried to get up.

"Put him under, now! He's too much out of it to understand the paperwork anyway. Get going, people."

Now, _that_ was reason to panic!

But Sherlock barely had time to struggle because people held him in place he felt pressure on the IV port.

Then, like a switch, he was out.

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* * *

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 _A/N:_

 _Please review.  
_


	5. Chapter 5 - San Francisco - Part 2

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

 _Long chapter because I won't be able to update for the next two weeks._

 _Trigger warning for medical procedure._

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* * *

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 **Fourty-eight hours later in London**

"Any news from my brother?"

"No, Sir, he left the hospital yesterday, didn't even bother to sign out AMA, was more of an escape it seems. We tried his motel, but he didn't show up, had it under surveillance all day."

"He has his way of sneaking in unseen, have you checked inside actually?"

"No. Monitored the only door to the room."

"Well, there are probably other ways into that room than just the door. Go in, check from the inside."

"Right, sorry Sir."

That moment Anthea walked into his office.

'Sign these' she gestured and put a manila folder down in front of him.

He hung up.

"Thank you," he smiled at her.

"I have something else," she informed him.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in question.

"A name came up on a passenger list, could be a coincidence, but it is one of your brother's covert identities. We won't check with the airline, no need to draw attention to it. Plane left from O'Hare two hours ago."

"He was last seen in San Francisco, quite a distance to Chicago, how did he get there that fast?"

"Probably by plane, I will check if there was another flight booked on one of his other names, none on this name."

"Thank you. Inform me as soon as you know,"

.

 **Earlier in a small town near San Francisco**

Sherlock was well aware he was a mess and soon became aware other people noticed as well as he tried to buy a bus ticket to Salt Lake City.

People stared so he retreated to a public bathroom to check his appearance. He had fetched half of his luggage from his San Francisco motel room without being spotted and had dressed in a fresh suit and dress shirt before he left - to maintain his appearance as a business traveller.

But he had been under the influence of heavy duty painkillers and although they were not opioid they were making him woozy.

He found his hair was a mess and he had a stubble... and well, his face was covered in bruises, there was no way hiding _that_.

Oh... make up!

Why hadn't he thought of that before?

There was something called concealer stick or something like that... he needed to buy one.

All in all he looked like he had had a rough night _and_ been in a car accident.

Car accident, that was good, if anyone asked this would be a good reason, being beaten would cause too many emotional responses in his counterpart.

So he shaved and decided there where two priorities right now: more painkillers for the journey and making himself look more presentable.

The wires that shut his jaw were really getting on his nerves. They felt strange and sometimes he forgot they were there and tried to open his mouth which really hurt.

He inspected the fine silver strings that caused his slurred speech and made him sound like an imbecile, made people turn their heads as soon as he started to speak.

He needed them _out_ , but it was probably a lot of work and without proper equipment he'd risk damaging his teeth. Not that he particularly cared about them but damaging them would be an inconvenience.

Scheduled time of departure for the bus was two hours later, enough time to get some medication, a cover-up stick and proper tools. His travelling tool bag was not equipped for this kind of task but surely adding some finer wire cutters and pliers could be useful in the future. He wondered if there was a watchmaker nearby.

It turned out to be rather difficult to get what he needed, both the painkillers and the tools, the next hardware store was in a mall several kilometres away and the drug store only provided heavy duty painkillers with prescriptions, so he bought some ibuprofen and decided to find a dealer in the area around the bus station.

People like that could always be found in places like this.

.

When he finally boarded the bus he was even more of a mess than two hours before.

He had tried to cut the wires in his mouth but the first try had already gone wrong and left him with a gaping cut to his gums that had bled a lot. As soon as he tried to speak his bloody teeth were visible and the pain was getting to him, the meds he had taken from the hospital had finally worn off and the new cut added to his already unnerving agony.

The dealers he had found were all dodgier than he liked and he hadn't bought what they had to offer, it didn't look good. He wasn't desperate enough to try the pills they had shown him, their appearance screamed 'cut'. Although he had a small travelling chemist kit with him, testing those was not an option, would take too much time and need additional stuff he didn't have with him. Besides, what he saw said enough.

Since it was much too dangerous he hadn't booked a flight in advance. He planned to buy the ticket directly once he was at Chicago's O'Hare airport.

He had a few hours of bus drive ahead of him, through the Rocky Mountains to Salt Lake City. It would have been nice to see the Mountains by driving through them and the bus was thankfully not even half full, but after only half an hour his pain climbed up to a level that left him trembling and gulping down nausea constantly.

He dissolved some of the ibuprofen in water and drank it, but the solution caused stomach cramps.

The journey was pure agony and one of the other passengers - an old lady who was en route to visit her grandchildren - came over several times because she was worried. He knew he was rude to her, but he didn't care, it was all too much.

Although he was very tired sleep was impossible, he couldn't even lie down on the seats properly, because there was no way to do it without putting pressure on his jaw or his ribs.

Some time later he must have fallen asleep because when he regained his sensed she was leaned over him and talking to another woman about asking the driver to stop by a hospital.

He hissed at her that she should take care of her own business; he must have deduced some ugly things about her because after that she left with a frightened expression and even left him alone for the rest of the ride.

He was in dire need of silence because he feared to lose his mind if he had to endure this any longer.

It was a very long ride, not seeming to end.

.

When he finally arrived in Salt Lake he staggered into the airport and left his luggage in storage, then bought a plane ticket to Chicago. The looks the young woman behind the counter gave him made him decide to get make up – first priority.

The remaining four hours he spent finding a high class dealer who had proper drugs and a large choice.

But the man he finally found _was_ a dealer, not a pharmacist. Due to the lack of better options he bought morphine pills. By then he didn't care any longer what he took and how risky it was to cause a relapse. He needed to get home and he needed the pain to be bearable enough to concentrate.

He huffed in sarcasm when he remembered how he had resisted the morphine at the hospital and it was all useless now, he had bought it and he knew he would soon take it.

He'd make sure this wouldn't escalate.

John might forgive him faking his death, but coming back with a drug habit might make things more difficult, or even prevent forgiveness.

On the other hand, if he wasn't able to handle this he wouldn't survive long enough to get back to John at all. It had been risky already, leaving the hospital like this. If someone was on his trail he needed to be on his guard, something he currently wasn't.

He used the make-up he had found at the duty free and then changed to another terminal and bought another ticket - under his other identity - from Chicago to London.

 **Present**

Mycroft cursed silently, then decided to follow his little brother to his room.

A new wave of slight anger washed over him when he saw that Sherlock let himself heavily fall into the bed, fully clothed - at least he had messily slipped out of his dress shoes and his jacket - and turned away from him. Then he curled into a foetal position and it was a clear signal that he wanted to be left alone.

"Sherlock, I _need_ to know what happened, I don't appreciate being kept in the dark about this mission."

Sherlock stilled and didn't answer.

"This is ridiculous, it was worse enough that you didn't get in touch for days, now I need an update!"

His brother remained silent.

Mycroft waited.

Then tried another approach.

"Sherlock, _please_."

Still no reaction, just silence.

The worry and anger that had kept Mycroft awake the past three nights came back and he stepped closer to the bed.

"Dammit! Sherlock! Stop ignoring me!" he raised his voice.

Then he grabbed the other man's shoulder with the intention to turn him around to force him to look at him.

But to his surprise a completely slack body followed the movement he started.

Sherlock's head lolled around and he came to rest in an awkward position, his body half on his back and half on his side, his eyes were closed.

"Sherlock?"

At first Mycroft was sure this was one of his brother's ridiculous tries to get rid of him.

But then he realised his face was so slack, he was reminded of the child, and Sherlock wouldn't wear that expression willingly.

He grabbed his head with both hands, that gesture alone should cause Sherlock to jump out of the bed in disgust if he had even a tiny bit of his senses left to realise what Mycroft was doing.

But Sherlock didn't react at all and Mycroft was momentarily distracted by how cold and clammy Sherlock's face was.

At that moment Mycroft finally realised his brother had either passed out or fallen asleep, whatever it was it was not good.

His anger had blinded him to the real distress his baby brother was in, who probably had also ignored his own body's needs out of habit.

"Sherlock, wake up!"

His brother was a light sleeper and he should have been woken by this.

Now Mycroft was starting to get really worried.

He leaned closer in order to examine his sibling.

Sherlock's breathing was shallow and uneven and when he caught a whiff of his breath he scrunched up his nose.

He knew that smell, it was the odour of malnourishment.

He had been right.

Due to the intensity of the smell he assumed Sherlock hadn't really eaten solid food for at several days.

Carefully, Mycroft shifted his hands and with both thumbs gently pulled up Sherlock's upper lip.

The jaw was wired shut with fine silver wires.

He relaxed a bit when he saw it was not the solid Arch Bar variation but the one for less severe cases. And even the Ivy Loops were not linking every pair of teeth, the jaw was probably not fully broken then.

His tension rose again when he pushed down Sherlock's bottom lip and saw that there was blood, all the teeth were red, he looked closer.

It was not fresh but had bled quite a bit. A moment later he grunted in surprise. There was a deep cut in the gingival under his left mandibular cuspit, it had obviously not been treated and was still bleeding slightly.

Had Sherlock been so stupid to really try what he had hinted at before, to remove the wires himself?

He fetched his phone and dialled his assistant, with the speaker mode switched on, he placed it on the nightstand.

"Yes, Sir."

"I need you to check if Dr Williams is in the house at the moment - and to call my dentist, ask him for a house call... as soon as possible. "

He hung up and sighed, then made sure his brother wasn't in need of an ambulance or immediate medical attention.

Carefully he opened his sibling's shirt collar to make him more comfortable.

A few moments later Dr Williams arrived, he had been in the Club as usual. Mycroft's former colleague had attended to Sherlock twice in the past and was aware of the sensitive situation and the level of nondisclosure at place when it came to the younger Holmes.

Dr Williams was horrified by Sherlock's state and the fact that he had left the hospital and underwent a journey like that in his state.

While he examined the younger Holmes he repeatedly uttered his surprise.

All Mycroft could do was watch him work and every now and then explain that Sherlock did those things.

He helped when the doctor needed a hand but when he asked what meds Sherlock was on Mycroft was at a loss for a moment.

In order to find out what he had taken, he searched Sherlock's luggage and jacket, there must be more of whatever painkillers he had taken.

But what he found was a small unlabelled bag with pills and then... a list in the breast pocket of the jacket.

He stiffened - a _list_!

To his relieve he found nothing _really_ bad written on it.

Morphine was certainly not a good choice for a former addict but it could have been worse.

Sherlock had meticulously noted every dose.

There were also dates, that had a question mark and a brand name Mycroft didn't know, when he showed it to the doctor the man explained it was an American brand name and a strong painkiller, but not addictive.

Relieved, Mycroft sagged down on the edge of the bed. This meant Sherlock had probably prevented to be given opiates. Also the absence of other of his usual favourite drugs calmed the older brother.

Sherlock had fought to prevent the risk of a relapse.

"He's very weak from the lack of sustenance, that's probably why he collapsed. He needs a week of bed rest a few good meals every day."

"Good luck trying that with Sherlock Holmes."

"Excuse me?"

"I meant to say that the only way to make him do that is to chain him to the bed and feed him intravenously."

Dr Williams looked shocked.

"Doctor, you have met my brother before, this shouldn't be such a surprise to you."

"Yes, right."

That moment the dentist arrived and the conversation was put on hold while Dr Williams assisted the other doctor to tend to Sherlock's gums and fix the pair of loose wires.

In contrast to Dr Williams, the dentist usually tended to secret service agents and was used to improvised treatment and odd injuries, he didn't asked how it had happened, just closed the cut with two stitches and left again.

Sherlock had remained alarmingly limb through the whole procedure.

"You are really convinced your brother would not try to eat by himself?"

"Why do you think he is in this state? Why did he try to remove the wires? Probably because he refused to eat via a large syringe filled with strained vegetables," Mycroft assumed.

"Oh. You think he went without food because of the process itself?"

"Of course," Mycroft was losing his patience.

"There's also the option of liquid nutrition."

"But that was probably not available at the moment. He left the US in a haste, didn't have the time, he was undercover."

"I see... but that's very... unusual."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I fear we have to use more drastic measures," the doctor sighed.

Mycroft gulped.

"Under these circumstances – if you are sure he wouldn't stay in bed and he wouldn't try to ingest things we recommend..."

"I am sure he won't," Mycroft interrupted him.

"... then I suggest using a nasogastric feeding tube."

Mycroft gulped again, then hesitate and stared at his sibling for a moment, finally, he admitted defeat.

"Well, the thing is I am absolutely sure he'll try to get it out the moment he regains consciousness."

"We should probably keep him asleep then for a day or two, allow his body to rest. At least that would mean we don't need to use heavy duty pain killers."

Mycroft nodded, "Do it, I don't see an alternative."

.

Half an hour later they had changed Sherlock's clothes and Dr William prepared to insert the tube.

Mycroft was ready help the doctor sedate him should his brother wake up; he sat down and held Sherlock's upper arm and wrist gently.

The first few centimetres of the tube went in without a problem, but then - of course -Sherlock stirred the moment the doctor pushed the slim flexible tube past his nasal cavities.

"For goodness sake," Mycroft cursed and fastened his grip.

But to his surprise - instead of starting to fight - Sherlock blindly reached for Mycroft's wrist himself and held on.

"Sherlock, relax, don't fight it."

When Sherlock didn't, Mycroft addressed the doctor.

"Maybe you should..."

He had wanted to suggest they knock him out now, he feared Sherlock would hurt himself once he started to fight, which might only be moments away.

But Williams continued, pushed the thing in further.

Sherlock's grip tightened even more, and his whole body tensed when the doctor slid more of the tube in.

Then Sherlock gagged.

"We should stop and knock him out, he doesn't need to experience this," Mycroft tried to protect his brother from one more bad memory.

The doctor was carefully bracing Sherlock's head and was obviously prepared that he might fight them, but hoped Sherlock was too much out of it to really wake.

Before Mycroft could reinforce his argument or before they could do anything, it happened.

Suddenly Sherlock's lips parted and he sucked in air.

"Can we get this over with fast, I need to sleep," Sherlock slurred through his closed teeth.

Mycroft needed a moment until the words sank in, then he was horrified, his brother was obviously awake enough to know what was happening.

"Swallow, Sherlock, as often as you can, swallow it down," the doctor reacted fast - he hurried to get over with the procedure instead of stopping it.

He carefully pushed more of the fine tube inwards.

Sherlock gulped frantically, and Mycroft could feel him suppress the gagging reflex twice more before the end was past his epiglottis.

"Well done, we should have given you water, but to be honest I didn't expect you to wake, I'm sorry," the doctor explained.

Sherlock just grunted while the physician went on pushing until a marker on the tube reached Sherlock's nostril.

"Relax, the worst part is over, I will check the positioning now."

He filled a syringe with a bit of air, pushed it in and with a stethoscope made sure the tube was in the stomach and not in the lungs.

Sherlock had opened his eyes a slit and was following William's movements wearily.

Mycroft watched him with worry, Sherlock blinked heavily and was obviously in pain, he still hadn't let go of his brother's underarm and Mycroft wondered if he was aware he was holding onto it.

The doctor taped the tube in place and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, obviously to soothe him, that was the moment when Sherlock jerked and turned away from him, removing himself from the touch with a bit too much force.

He let go of his brother and with a grunt rolled on his other side, towards Mycroft.

The doctor had to hurry to give the tube slack to keep it from ripping out again.

Dr Williams' eyes widened in bad surprise about Sherlock's sudden movement and his eyes found Mycroft's who signalled him to be careful and on alert.

Mycroft didn't dare to touch his sibling after this reaction, he just watched him. To him it was obvious Sherlock was retreating into himself. He knew this posture, Sherlock was actively trying to shut the world out, maybe trying to escape to his mind palace, he had done that the exact same way as a teenager.

"Sherlock, we'd like to give you something for the pain."

When the younger Holmes didn't react Mycroft nodded at the doctor, who then ignored the feeding tube for the moment, prepared a needle and swiftly injected Sherlock with another dose of morphine into his hip.

The consultant detective didn't react. He seemed to have accepted the option of being fed like this, maybe he even welcomed it, which was kind of uncompromising in Mycroft's understanding of the whole thing, or maybe he just didn't want to be bothered by it on top of everything else.

He signalled to Williams to just sit down and wait until Sherlock was out before they proceeded.

Sherlock had already faced trouble and injuries in the few months since his fall that other agents hadn't faced in five years of service. And since the younger Holmes was not very talented when it came to self-preservation Mycroft decided he needed to be a bit more extra protective as long as Sherlock allowed it.

On the other hand the fact that Sherlock didn't fight probably meant that he was in dire need of care.

He had become worse in the past months, not only physically, but mentally, too.

Mycroft was well aware of that and assumed Dr Watson's absence was the direct relation to both the problems. He wondered how aware his brother was about this little fact.

For now he had to give Sherlock the care John usually provided and hope it would be accepted.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he looked down at his sibling, who had his eyes open now but was staring blindly ahead.

This was a bitter reminder of the hours Mycroft had spent sitting next to Sherlock on a filthy mattress while he was either high from drugs, coming down or going through withdrawal without medical assistance.

Those dreadful hours had changed Mycroft, he had tried to stop caring, it was all too painful to watch Sherlock waste away, but in the end found all the worry had just done the opposite, had heightened his protective instinct which had caused Sherlock to distance himself from his sibling even more, probably because he felt restricted.

At least at the surface their relationship had somehow become rougher than it was in their youth. Mycroft was well aware other things had added to that but he couldn't change them, he could just try to make up for it, but he still was at a loss how to actually do it.

He decided to just try to be there for him as he had done back then, when Sherlock was suffering from his drug abuse, maybe if he just stepped into the gap, if he was careful and did it with respect, maybe Sherlock could accept him there again, allow him to be of help, forgive him for the Moriarty disaster and everything else that had gone wrong in the past years.

Sherlock had changed in the past months, on one hand he had become more careful, but on another more reckless and it was an alarming trend. Mycroft was very worried and hoped it would be possible to finish this mission soon, so Sherlock could go back to John and it would all get back to normal.

"'m sorry," Sherlock mumbled suddenly.

Mycroft frowned, not understanding at first; also it was so much out of character he wondered if Sherlock was delirious or talking in his sleep.

"List," Sherlock whispered.

And Mycroft realised that for the first time in years Sherlock had _needed_ to write a list and had _done_ as he had promised. Even though it was clear to Mycroft he had taken the morphine because there was nothing else available and was in severe pain - not for recreational use - but he had made a list nevertheless.

While the dentist was treating Sherlock, Anthea had brought the medical records of the American hospital. Going through them Mycroft had learned that Sherlock had refused the drugs from the beginning. Sherlock had stayed clean for years now and Mycroft decided to show understanding for the situation. He was sure John was one reason for Sherlock staying away from drugs, now that John wasn't there the risk of a relapse was considerable higher, which he was very aware and very concerned off. He would need to have a very close eye on Sherlock's habits from now on.

"Don't be silly. I assume you had no other options available. We'll deal with that later, for now we can't just change the active agent," Mycroft repeated what the doctor had said an hour before when they had discussed pain medication.

"Time to sleep."

Mycroft now placed his hand over his brother's forearm, which was the least 'difficult' part of his sibling he could touch at the moment. The touch was careful but not light - Sherlock refused flimsy touches even more than touches in general - and he was prepared to break the contact immediately in case Sherlock reacted badly.

For a moment Mycroft held his breath, expecting to be shoved away, but he wasn't.

He relaxed.

Maybe this was a first step towards being accepted again.

Sherlock hadn't been in a state this bad in years, he hoped it would get better from now but was well aware they had still a lot of work ahead of them.

In slow motion Sherlock's eyes closed and he just watched and waited for his brother to fall asleep.

It took almost five more minutes until Sherlock's body started to relax.

After that Mycroft and the doctor drank a glass of brandy before returning to the sleeping detective, waiting for him to reach deep sleep before they did anything else.

"I can give him a sleeping aid later, to make him sleep through the night, maybe even longer. He needs rest," the doctor suggested in a low voice. "I'll check on him and we can decide then. I also need a blood sample. This is kind of a drastic measure."

"I am well aware. My brother never takes the easy way."

The doctor set up a pump that fed Sherlock slowly through the night.

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* * *

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 _A/N:_

 _Why this was not in the original story: (don't read if you don't want to know real life background things)._

 _This is once more one of my tries to work through one of my triggers._

 _All kinds of sensations that are connected with having a large tube shoved through my constricted deformed nasal cavities and down my throat for a bronchoscopy are one of my triggers (while being held down although I didn't even try to move through the whole procedure)._

 _So in this chapter I went through describing something with a very small thin tube, but I had to switch to an outside perspective (Mycroft's in this case), I couldn't do it from the receiving part, that would have definitely overwhelmed me. Also I thought it was a good idea to for a change to explore Mycroft's thoughts._

 _I deleted these two chapters from the original story because it made me sick (due to being triggered) when I first tried to proof-read it, and even when I tried again later._

 _Well, now I finally managed here it is, although it probably has more mistakes since I nevertheless hurried through checking for errors. Sorry._

 _I fit in the new facts we learned about the 'lists' in TAB._

 _I do not endorse Sherlock stopping to eat just because of the inconvenience of how it is done (ask YouTube if you want to know, it's not that bad) but I have to admit that since I have sensory processing disorder I also am very picky with what consistencies I allow to enter my mouth, and have made a similar choice in the past, therefore I can understand his thoughts and used it in this story. I deliberately made Mycroft a bit out of character, because he is very worried, hope it wasn't too much._

 _I am not a doctor but I'd love to have my stories medically accurate. I'd be very grateful for professional medical personnel to point out any mistakes or help me improve this._

 _Please let me know what you think._


	6. Chapter 6 - Molly

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

 _New Chapter for all the Molly-fans out there._

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* * *

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 **Chapter 6: Molly**

Molly went home late that night. It had been a long day. Cases took so much longer without Sherlock around.

She had sighed when she had thought of the consulting detective. He would have liked this one.

Life had turned a bit sour after Sherlock left. Not only that there was all the grief and her guilty conscience of knowing Sherlock was still alive that made her evade all his friends. She also no longer hoped to see him when an interesting body turned up, and she also didn't get odd texts in which he ordered her to keep certain body parts available for him to pick up.

No weird experiments.

No odd requests.

No cases involving Sherlock Holmes.

In the beginning, right after his faked death, he had slept at her place a few times, but she hadn't seen him in months now and assumed he was travelling, doing whatever needed to be done to safe John and the others.

Sherlock had been in a bad shape right after the fall. The carefully planned fall had not worked as smoothly as hoped.

Sherlock had been injured and in shock when he arrived at the morgue. The meds he had taken to assist him in staring blindly ahead and being limb also affected him. The man had been in severe distress about John's reaction, to his own surprise, had trembled and been unable to form coherent sentences at first. Convinced he had to be in control of his transport he had tried to sit up and promptly fallen to the ground, then vomited into one of her dustbins.

Molly had anxiously waited for his brother's minions to pick him up.

It had been a very bad day for all of them.

Toby greeted her at the door as usual, her flat was dark and the cat must have been bored, too.

She put the bag of groceries down and hurried to feed him first before she unpacked. He deserved a nice meal after waiting for her all day.

To her surprise the cat was oddly affectionate.

She had shopped for a nice dinner - sweet potatoes and chicken. She planned to take her time to really cook today, when she realised her died was poor and unhealthy due to the stress he had decided to take more care of to have a balanced died.

The problem was she had little energy and little appetite in the past months, she still hadn't mentally digested Sherlock's fall… as well as John's grief. She felt so very bad for not being allowed to tell him the truth.

In a way she was also grieving but it was more about the situation in the whole and her part in it than the loss every one else mourned.

After she had peeled the potatoes she started cutting them to pieces.

Suddenly, a loud noise from her bedroom made her jump in surprise.

She was so startled the knife slipped and since the vegetables were quite hard she had used a fair amount of force on cutting, them that now cut into the side of her palm.

But the major issue here was: That was definitely not the cat!

It was the only thing that registered in the fist two seconds, then the pain hit.

She grabbed a paper towel to stem the blood flow, but the wound was not important, the origin of the noise was.

Before she had time to reach for her phone – and a bigger knife she decided - there was a knock on the door between her bedroom and the kitchen.

She froze in surprise, a moment later the door opened and a dark and dirty figure of a man in sweats and a ratty old raincoat stepped through the door and into the dimly lit side of the kitchen.

She held her breath in horror for a moment.

Why would anyone break into her apartment?

Right, Moriarty.

Had he found out that she was more important to Sherlock than expected?

Within a second she reacted, this was dangerous, she needed to get out. Before the man had time to move, she had turned and was on her way to the front door.

"Molly!"

She had almost reached it when it sank in to whom the voice belonged.

She stopped and turned back.

"Sherlock, you git, you scared me!"

Her heart was beating up her throat, so intense it was almost painful.

She looked at his face, he was barely recognisable under all the dirt, or was it make-up?

He looked as if he lived on the streets.

Worried now, she stepped back to the counter.

"Are you okay?" she panted.

"Yes of course, I deliberately made noise so you knew it was me," he informed her.

Her worry suddenly changed into anger.

"How am I supposed to know it was _you_ by the noise you make in my bedroom? Shit!" she yelled.

Sherlock deduced that the adrenaline rush must be getting to her, and not in a positive way.

"Obviously. You are hurt, what happened?"

"Your _deliberate noise_ surprised me so much I cut my hand."

She had only seen the wound for a split second, but was sure it would need her professional attention, she started to feel slightly sick.

"I'll need stitches."

"What?" he said in disbelieve, "What kind of knife did you use? A scalpel?"

"I was preparing food."

"Yes?"

"Huh, only you would cut potatoes with a scalpel, Sherlock," she sighed. "I don't have a mini morgue in my kitchen, I'm not you. I used a small kitchen knife - a food-only knife."

"Scalpels are efficient," he mumbled.

"Stop it!" she lost her patience, "And get my first aid bag, it's in the bathroom.

Sherlock went to get it.

When he returned, she had cleared the kitchen table with one hand, the other held up and pressed against her chest. When he put the bag down she sat on a chair and carefully peeled back the stained paper towel.

"How did you manage to cut yourself _there_?" He asked when he saw the cut that was at the side of her hand.

She looked up at him, a stern sinister look on her face that told him to shut up.

To look at the wound she had to turn her hand at an odd inconvenient angle and it was immediately clear to Sherlock that treating herself like this would be difficult.

He licked his lip, trying to decide if he was allowed to speak again yet.

"Dammit!" she cursed, she must have realised the same thing when she started to disinfect the wound with the solution Sherlock held out to her.

"Molly?"

"What?"

"You can't reach it properly."

"Brilliant observation, Sherlock."

She was angry, he was still not sure what he was guilty off.

But he realised he hadn't said what he meant. He had wanted to offer his assistance. His communicating skills, he had gained from living and working with John, seemed to atrophy now that his flatmate wasn't present.

Slowly, he picked up another piece of gauze, wetted it with the solution and took her hand, simultaneously dragged the chair on casters she sat on closer.

She flinched and he realised - although he had done it carefully - it was probably a breach of her personal space, to move her whole body without asking her first, or at least warn her first.

"Sorry."

He didn't look up at her and started cleaning the wound.

She allowed it, let her own ball of gauze sink.

The wound was still bleeding and it looked as if she had tried to cut off a slice of her hand, it was a gaping wound.

"It's deep."

"I should go to A&E," she got ready to stand up.

"Don't be ridiculous, I can do it."

"I'm not an object for practice for your satisfaction."

Her mood wasn't getting better.

"I _can_ do the stitches, could use some practise."

She hesitated.

"When was the last time you actually did this?" she wanted to know.

"On a living body?"

"Right, I remember, you once spent two entire days with me in the morgue practising," she rolled her eyes, remembering he _was_ capable of doing it.

"I tried all known ways to close a wound, it was for a case. But I already could stitch wounds by then," he protested.

"Yeah, well but you first sutures were ugly, would have caused unnecessary scars."

"I was trying to find out what kind of..."

"I know, I remember, looks weren't important. But I want my hands to look nice, so you better do your best. I remember that after the two days you work was neat and fine... at least when you decided it might be a useful skill and asked me for proper instructions."

She hesitated.

"Go have a shower. You stink. This can wait a few more minutes. I don't want any of your germs in my wound. I'll use the time to numb it."

He scrunched up his nose and wordlessly disappeared into the bathroom to clean himself up.

.

When he returned to the kitchen, he had dressed in a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms and a shirt he had fetched from the bottom dresser in the hall, where a small duffel black with his stuff was stored.

"Are you pale?" he asked, not sure if she was, she looked different than before.

"We will do this by the book, no move without my approval. I really don't want to be left with a big scar," she ignored the question.

"All right," he agreed.

She tipped her finger against her palm.

"Okay, it's numb enough, sterilise your hands and get on some gloves.

She fetched hand sanitizer and held it out to him and he dutifully cleaned his hands, then slipped into a pair of gloves she handed him.

Then he carefully opened the ready-to-use-needle that came with threat attached and pulled it out of the sterile package with a pair of pincers she also had sterilised while he was in the shower.

"Place the first stitch there," she used the tip of the anaesthetic needle to point at the exact spot. "Go in three millimetres from the edge."

He slowly followed her instructions while she was looking into a make-up mirror. She had her elbows on the table and was holding her hand up so Sherlock could easily reach it.

Sherlock's practiced and capable fingers followed her instructions carefully and with deliberation.

The curved needle went through her skin as if he had done it a hundred times. Slowly, he started to tie the first knot, using a second pincer to get the end of the threat through the loop.

"Make it a bit tighter… good… finish the knot."

She watched him, he took care to do it slowly enough for her to interfere in case something was not right or he made a false move.

"Cut the threat... bit shorter, make sure that the ends don't fall into the wound… Alright, next one."

She sometimes corrected him with little details, explained what he had to look out for and gave him some more detailed background knowledge. It was quite obvious how relieved she was about his inexhaustible thirst for knowledge and his focus.

For the detective this was a chance to practise. At first he had thought he already knew all the facts, but a repetition couldn't hurt - especially since he had no doubt more danger and injuries were ahead of him with the upcoming missions. But now he was glad she was giving him a course again, to refine his wound care abilities.

Molly was patient, she had probably been in pain before the lidocaine had started to work, but hadn't shown it in a way he would've expected. He was aware she was different on the surface than she really was, was not the shy mousy person she appeared to be.

She was much tougher than most people expected, he had learned that in the week before and those following his fall. Back then he had finally understood that he had slightly misjudged her.

The first change of perspective had hit him when she informed him he was looking at John with sadness.

He had neither been aware of the presence of that kind of sentiment, nor thought that he was showing any of his worries in a way that anyone but Mycroft could spot. The fact that she had seen it surprised him. He had taken the chance and used what she offered, there weren't that many options.

In the first week he had stayed over at her flat he had been frustrated with her behaviour. Due to his stress and injury he was impatient.

She had done her best to patch him up, but after a while she had coolly informed him she wasn't John.

He had obviously failed to realise that… or addressed her as John?

He had indeed made remarks about how John would have done this and that and how different she was from him, out of his own misery.

After that she was a lot sterner with him and her no nonsense attitude had lasted for a few days.

He tried to ignore her, kept his silence, still kind of shocked by the events, his sudden loss of John and the fact that he was staying with her.

It took a few days until they adjusted. It was impossible for him to figure out how it happened, it must have been something about her human nature, but things seemed to intertwine somehow, became easier, adjusted.

He accepted her care.

And she accepted the intruder in her bed room.

Now, he assumed she had probably understood that stitching a wound properly was a necessary ability for him, but that she'd be so ruthless to volunteer her own body showed a lot.

He remembered a discussion with John, who refused to allow him to do the same, which had caused a long discussion.

Sherlock didn't understand why John preferred to go to A&E, he himself would try to evade it with a lot of effort. In the end John had decided some carefully placed butterfly bandaged would do the job, this was in the beginning of them living together. Later on he had been allowed to patch John up, though, but it had taken time.

He froze - mid-knot - realising how different it was from John's behaviour.

"Sherlock?"

She must have addressed him repeatedly, because her tone was louder now than before.

He looked up at her face.

"You allowed me to do this?"

In his eagerness do this he had forgotten the fact, that this was her _body_. She didn't consider it to be just transport, she cared a lot about it and put effort in its care.

"Obviously," she said dryly.

She must have seen his confusion because she started to explain a moment later.

"I trust you, I saw you work, you're thorough. You're always eager to learn, you need to know everything."

"But… it's _your_ body."

She flushed.

He didn't understand why and decided not to ask would be the better decision if he had just dropped a brick or something.

"I trust you, Sherlock."

His eyes narrowed, more confusion.

Why did people trust him when he didn't even trust himself?

"Come on, move on, I'm hungry."

He came back to the present and finished a few minutes later. In the end they had made six stitches, and she had also explained how to dress it properly.

"Well done," she praised and smiled at him.

His puzzlement seemed to have changed her mood.

What else was she capable of sensing about his own sentiment that was so often more confusing than anything else for him?

"Let's make dinner."

Shouldn't she rest or something?

John sometimes complained that when he was hurt Sherlock was supposed to at least help with household things. Cooking was a household thing, right?

Where those just John's wishes? Or were those things that were nice in general?

He had deleted unnecessary behaviour patterns, like being charming. He wasn't good at it anyway, waste of space.

As he had done with a lot of other useless information about human social niceties. He had only kept things that were John-related and things that were essential for his mission, like learning four additional languages and memorising almost a meter of folded maps and plans he didn't dare to store on his secret service smart phone due to the delicacy of the material.

Maybe he should just copy and paste his being nice to John rules for use with Molly.

He had never dealt with an injured Molly; there wouldn't probably have been any mental instruction to follow for it even if he hadn't deleted such things.

"Stay seated and tell me what to do," he tried.

John would have liked that, it was good manners, wasn't it?

She smiled at him, stood up, fetched the potatoes and when she returned to the table briefly kissed his temple.

"Thank you."

Right decision, then.

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 _A/N:_

 _Please review, I am eager to learn what readers think :)_


	7. Chapter 7 - Escape From the Plant 1

**Downtime**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _.  
_

 _This and the following chapter are more Deleted/Missing Scene from my story ' **Define Vulnerability** '._

 _Read the story to know what happened to the homeless man, how he died, and why this traumatised Sherlock. The memories of this came back in Chapters 56 to 61 (or 22 to 27 with the other numbering system)._

 _In Italics: chapter text that I left in the final story._

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 **Escape from the plant - Part 1  
**

 _After he had made sure he was alone with the tramp's dead body Sherlock sorted through the man's meagre belongings and his own few water-damaged goods that were spilled around the cold campfire._

 _He covered the body, packed some things into the man's worn army backpack and then waited until noon before he headed out. He hoped that if someone was waiting for him out there, he'd think he'd leave in the dark of the night._

Leaving the ruinous building felt bad.

He felt naked and out in the open in the worst possible way.

In the hour before he had left he had observed the forest from the upper level of the plant to make sure no one was close by.

Lurking assassins was only one of his problems, the next one was: he wasn't really dressed for the occasion. His earlier escape from the killer - that had resulted in him jumping into a freezing river - had been more than hasty.

He had only what was on him at that moment, minus the phone and his undercover identity's wallet, which had been taken away when he was kidnapped by the killer's goons.

Standing outside the plant he was now fighting his urge to return to the shelter, he once more checked his surroundings, making sure no one was in sight.

To his luck much of the snow had started to melt and animals had left many trails on the softening ground. He'd be able to walk in their trails.

Also, to obscure his own trail he was walking on several layers of socks instead of his wet shoes. The sogginess wasn't that much different, his shoes were still dripping wet, but he would be able to walk almost noiseless on the socks, as well as leave prints not immediately recognisable as a human's.

He had wrapped an old white duvet cover around his shoulders, it was among the belongings of the man who had saved him. Though full of holes and dirty it would camouflage him in the snowy landscape.

He started walking.

 _His condition made him slow, as did the fact that he was overly careful and moved as silent as possible._ But the most difficult thing was the undergrowth of the forest he was trying to cut across country.

He felt miserable and was still in pain from his earlier ordeal. Also his fever was still lingering.

After almost ten hours of walking, only interrupted by two brief halts to drink from a clean puddle of melting snow, he found a road and road signs.

It was almost two in the morning. Feeling safer in the dark and well aware his strength was dwindling fast, he decided to walk on the weathered asphalt as long as it was dark.

He'd see cars early enough to hide in time due to their headlights. He also put on his wet shoes, several of his toes were numb and with a stab of anxiety he wondered if he'd lose them.

Stumbling down the road he needed less concentration and he registered the growing issues of his transport. His feet were numb, too, as were his hands and the tip of his nose.

Due to the fact that he had been in constant movement he wasn't freezing that much.

He had started to shiver two hours into his walk, but by now the shivering had stopped, which wasn't a good sign, either. It might be the first recognisable sign of hypothermia, but he didn't dare to stop for making a fire.

Somehow his body was walking on its own, he felt as if on autopilot, not really in control any longer. His mind had separated from the pains and the need to do another difficult step and another and another...

He walked on, the fear of just collapsing from exhaustion sooner or later always present.

His focus was dissipating.

For brief periods of time he forgot where he was, why he was there and where he was going. He lost himself in the monotonous movements.

No stopping.

Essential to keep moving.

.

In the early hours of the morning it all came back to him when he saw headlights in the distance and it triggered an internal alarm.

He dived into the forest, panting and well aware he had almost forgotten why he needed to be careful.

The adrenaline provided a clearer head and dulled the pain.

When the vehicle passed the realisation that he needed shelter soon or never again hit him hard.

His mind was deteriorating and it put him in even more danger than the lack of food and medicine. On one hand collapsing on the street might be dangerous, but collapsing in the forest was practically the guarantee to die. Lying on the road he might be found by friendly persons, so there was still a small chance for survival.

Back on the road he walked on.

After he stumbled and fell for the third time he decided to stay on the road, but take cover from vehicles nevertheless. He only needed assistance if he collapsed.

Later, he didn't know how he managed to walk five more hours, but the next time he lifted his gaze to the heavily clouded sun it was around noon.

A massive headache had joined all his other ailments and he felt so numb he struggled to gain control over his body. He had to concentrate on stop walking for a few moments, before it actually happened. When he realised how disconnected from his body he was, the anxiety to be unable to start walking again after a pause made him continue immediately.

All in all only three vehicles passed him and he hid every time... or hadn't he?

He had been kind of out of it earlier, walking like a zombie without conscious thought.

The climate was getting milder and he assumed he was getting closer to the coast.

Another hour later he suddenly experienced something that made the whole thing even worse.

Emotions started to cloud his mind additionally.

Basic and utterly disgusting human emotions that exceeded the 'normal' amount of fear for his existence, that had kept him alive during the past months.

Suddenly, his face was wet from some inner turmoil he couldn't identify, it started to paralyse his mind further.

He heard the crackling fire in 221b's living room.

John.

John wasn't here.

Was that the whole problem?

He clenched his jaw, tried to shove the unwelcome nostalgia away but felt more wetness pool in his eyes.

Anger that it had come to all this mingled with the sorrow about John's absence.

He could barely see through his blurry eyes.

Without his consent his body gasped while he tried to concentrate on going on.

This was the last he needed.

Mental distress that was totally out of place and might kill him.

The image of his dead saviour from before bathed in his own blood on the concrete floor of the plant resurfaced.

He gulped.

It hurt.

His throat hurt.

In desperation he squeezed his eyes shut to clear them, not willing to get his hands out of his pockets, they were cold enough already.

When he shook his head to clear it too, vertigo hit him.

The world started spinning and out of reflex he freed his hands to brace himself, but only a moment later he hit the ground, hard.

That was it, he had reached his personal limit, had gone too far.

A weak sob escaped his mouth and the sound was so vulnerable and desperate it made him nauseous.

He'd die if he didn't get up... but the thought wasn't frightening any more.

It was almost welcome.

He couldn't do this any longer.

He had no strength left.

A moment later he passed out.

.

Pain exploded in his head and he gasped.

"Sherlock?"

He knew that voice.

"Come on, open your eyes."

A gentle hand was on his head, stroking back his long wet hair.

"You need to get up."

In disbelieve Sherlock opened his eyes.

 _John._

How had he gotten here?

John's hand was so warm and gentle, soothing him.

Where was _here_?

They were in a large marble hall, on the ground. His former flatmate was leaning over him while he was curled up on his side.

The room was completely covered in snow, as well as the staircase and the decoration.

It took him unusually long to determine that this couldn't be real.

He was in his mind palace.

As was John.

But in stark contrast to his last meeting with his virtual friend John was lacking his no-nonsense attitude and his rough commando-tone, instead he spoke with some odd tenderness.

"Hey, mate, you need to get up."

The doctor continued to touch him, gently stimulating his numb limbs. He rubbed his sternum, then continued to shove his hair out of his eyes, then he took his pulse, rubbed his back, kneaded his feet.

"Come on, the next town is only an hour away. You can't give up now, you're almost there."

Sherlock doubted he'd ever be able to get up again, he felt frozen solid and to the ground.

At least hypothermia wasn't too bad, he was still cold, which meant not dying yet.

"Sherlock, you really need to move. You can't leave me like this."

That last sentence hit a sore nerve.

The same emotions that had felled him before welled up again.

Mind palace John was surprisingly understanding of them. He looked down at him and carefully wiped the wetness away.

"I know. But you need to. Get it all out if you need to, but get up, too."

Sherlock was beyond caring. He had cried in the open before, he absolutely didn't care if John saw it. This happened in times to great stress, he just ignored it. His eyes watering wasn't important.

He remembered the last time it had happened.

The roof.

His body convulsed in a suppressed sob.

 _This_ was new.

He couldn't do this, allow the _that_ kind of desperation in.

Sorrow, yes.

Tears, yes.

But this overwhelming form of surrendering to despair would kill him.

So, exasperation, no.

"That's it. Come on."

John helped him into a sitting position, kept him upright.

"There you go! Keep your eyes open."

Sherlock just leaned into his presence.

It hurt to miss John more than he had expected.

Once more the hand was on his head, calming and soothing.

"All right, I got you, just breathe."

Sherlock did, it was work.

After what must have been several minutes of just enjoying John's presence he felt snow falling onto his face.

"It's starting to snow, you need to get up, now!"

A hand was shoved under his armpit and he was dragged upwards.

For a moment he staggered before he found himself on the lonely road again, alone and once more close to giving up.

The first step caused even more pain than he had expected, as did the second.

When his body did the tenth it finally fell back into its former rhythm and started the routine on its own.

And Sherlock walked on.

.

 _Finally, he reached a small dirty village with an equally small port._

His first impulse was to seek out a hotel or a tavern to warm up, but in his current condition he'd draw way too much attention.

He shoved the duvet cover into a bin and slogged along, down into the port.

There was an area were small sailboats and cabin cruisers were moored for the winter, this town must be into tourism at some time of the year.

Chances were high he'd find helpful things inside the there. He broke into a boat the size of a large motor home. The lock would have been a joke on a normal day, but his frozen fingers turned it into quite a difficult task.

Once inside he staggered down the ladder and found beds with blankets and although the small boat was at least fifteen years old it was equipped with a rather new direct vent heating system, which he immediately turned on. He wrapped the warmest blanket around his shoulders and started to search for something to eat.

The kitchen supply cabinet was filled with forgotten and expired crackers, cans, tea and candy, which he immediately started to eat.

While munching on some digestive biscuits he sat down to get his shoes off.

The boat was well equipped, there should be a first aid kit somewhere.

But the fact that it was moving in the water heightened his vertigo. He barely managed to get out of his boots when the world tilted once more and he fell back onto the bunk, not sure if his inner or outer world had just moved too much.

He decided it was way too difficult to move at all. He'd just wait a bit until it was warmer and dragged his legs onto the mattress.

Curled into t ball his breath was still creating white mist in the dark. He hadn't turned on the lights, afraid it might attract attention.

This felt so safe and warm and good and warm... and warm...

He lost consciousness a few moments later.

.

* * *

.

 **A/N:**

 _Writing in a foreign language is a lot of work and I'd love to get some feedback.  
_

 _Constructive criticism welcome!_


	8. Chapter 8 - Escape From the Plant 2

**Downtime - Part 8  
**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

 _Read the story to know what happened to the homeless man, how he died, and why this traumatised Sherlock. The memories of this came back in Chapters 56 to 61 (or 22 to 27 with the other numbering system)._

 _In Italics: chapter text that I left in the final story._

.

* * *

.

 **Escape from the plant – Part 2**

Sherlock woke up briefly during the night when it became too warm in the little cabin.

He was sore all over and his mouth, nasal cavities and eyes felt swollen from the dry dusty heat inside the little cabin.

He managed to force his hurting body up and turn the heating down, he knew he should eat and drink but he couldn't make himself care.

All he wanted was _not to_ move - and oblivion. He couldn't handle the memories of the past four days right now, he desperately needed and wanted a break.

He lay back down and didn't wake for another thirteen hours.

.

It was late afternoon when he finally awoke, the sun going down again.

The first thing his mind registered was that he was cold.

With aching joints he climbed out of the bunk bed and checked the thermostat.

22°C inside the cabin.

He touched his head.

It felt way too warm.

"You've got a fever," John's voice came out of the dark.

It was such a surprise he violently jerked backwards. When his heart rate was slowing down he allowed his head to tilt back until it leaned against the wall next to the panel with all the boat's sensors.

The headache should have been a warning.

As much as he wanted it to be real, but John wasn't there. He was all on his own.

"Get a thermometer, you idiot," his friend scolded.

Sherlock was not eager to open his eyes, it meant that he'd have to actually see that John wasn't really there and he was not ready for that.

The greatest need he had at the moment was having the other man with him.

It was too harsh to realise his friend wasn't there so he just ignored it.

"Hey, earth to Sherlock," John's voice sounded in his ear.

He allowed his knees to slacken and slid down the wall he was leaning on.

This was all too much.

He could not handle this, he was so very tired.

"Sherlock? Get up and get the meds... and find the bloody phone!"

John was right.

He probably had a fever and he should do something about it.

Paracetamol.

In every over the counter first aid kit there should be paracetamol, right?

He had to find the stupid kit.

It was hard to even gather the strength to get up.

To his luck the walls in the boat were close to each other, it was easy to steady himself with both hands on the walls for support.

The bathroom was so very small he was barely able to get into it to search the cabinet. Or maybe this vehicle was not designed for people with his height.

Well, since he was already there he could as well use the facilities.

Due to the typical design of this kind of WC he was able to see the collected urine.

It was the wrong shade of yellow, dark and almost orange.

Quite dehydrated, then.

The first aid kit was not stored in the tiny bathroom so he went on to search the rest of the boat.

What he did find was – to his surprise – a satellite phone.

Odd that the owner had left it, those were way too expensive and every sensible person would have taken it home for the winter.

Its batteries were dead but the charger was nearby. He wondered if there was enough left in the boat's battery to charge the phone.

Toilet was working, so it wasn't at least completely empty. He plugged it in and went on searching for the first aid kit. But he wasn't successful, also a bit odd.

When he went through the kitchen counter once more he found a cardboard box filled with various medications, a halfway used up package of paracetamol among them.

He downed a dose from a blister that had only recently expired, dry.

There was also no bottled water aboard.

The next thing he went for was a change of clothes.

To his not so big surprise he found mostly old and baggy man's clothes, too short and more than four sizes too wide. He slipped into fresh underwear, dry socks and a pair of jeans he tied to his size with a guy rope.

His own clothes smelled ripe and were wet. He threw them into a plastic bag and stuffed them into the tramp's old backpack, then continued to search the cabin for other useful items.

In the end he had found two small glass bowls of clutter, among it coins - almost 20 pounds - and safety pins, as well as a telephone card and water purification tablets.

.

Three hours later he left the boat, dressed as warmly as he could.

The satellite phone had turned out to be broken but he had taken some meds, the jeans and some of the old food.

He had no strength left to make sure to leave the boat in the state he had found it, but he locked it properly and made sure to leave it with no damage.

On shaky legs he headed towards the town centre.

Maybe there was a train station or a bus to bring him to the next bigger town.

No luck, the small village didn't even have public transport during the winter.

But he found a taxi driver who was willing to bring him to another village that had a train station for the coins he offered.

.

After arriving there he was lucky to catch a train that brought him to a nearby provincial capital.

When the train stopped he was quite overwhelmed from the sudden night life all around him. Desperately he tried to acclimatise his sore senses to all the noise.

He stumbled down a road that lead away from the station, looking for a cheap place to stay that was in a less busy area. But the inner-city was busy with night life and party goers.

The walk left him lightheaded and with a very unpleasant headache. He was not able to walk a straight line any longer and needed rest and water. He also feared his fever had risen.

At least stumbling like this he was easily mistaken for a homeless person. His dirty shabby clothes added to his cover, as did his oily hair and unshaven face. Maybe he should just try to stay in cover and find shelter with other homeless people somewhere.

When he finally passed a public phone he remembered he still had the telephone card and he checked the money on account.

After a calculation that took way too long he was sure he'd be able to dial his brother and talk for at least fifteen seconds, which would be enough to communicate his location.

After another long blurry moment of hesitation - in which he considered the time difference, the day and what Mycroft was probably doing - he dialled, but hung up after it had rung twice. This way Mycroft was warned it was him and prepared whatever he had at hand to receive urgent calls.

Sherlock waited for three minutes, then dialled again.

The line was picked up after three rings.

He had planned to speak fast and exchange his location and need of a save hotel room and money, but when his brother greeted him he found his voice was barely understandable.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

He more grunted than said first the name of the town and then the address of the barber shop he was in front of, hoping Mycroft would be able to understand.

"Got it, stay there. I'll se-"

The call was disconnected mid sentence.

He plucked the empty telephone card from the slot and stumbled over into the barber shop's entrance, it was in the back of a niche, a good place to sit for a few moments without being in the open.

The vertigo was getting to him and his headache was still gaining momentum, he felt once more disconnected from his body and his mind was misty, dreamlike.

Out of breath and strength he sat down and leaned against the large dark inner shop windows.

.

A hand was shaking his shoulder.

"Mr Bryner?"

Out of bloodshot eyes he looked up, not even remotely understanding what was happening around him.

"Mr Bryner?" the voice repeated, the accent clearly English.

The only thing he remembered was the danger he was in. People talking to him was not good, he couldn't risk talking to anyone who might remember him.

"Sir? Your brother called us and informed us you needed to be picked up. I am from the Imperial Hotel and came here to pick you up."

Sherlock blinked up at him in disbelief.

The man had the outer appearance of a high class hotel employee and a dark limousine was parked a few metres down the road, forcing all the honking traffic to go around it.

Sherlock brain was reacting so sluggish he was unable to answer.

"Your brother told us you are a chronically sick and in need of medication, he had it send over to us."

The man held out a black medicine cooling pouch and Sherlock recognised one of Mycroft's emergency strategies as well as the undercover name for somebody needing extracting and in an unknown medical condition.

The pouch would contain a mobile phone, painkillers and other helpful items.

"We were told to bring you to the hotel, a room is ready for you."

Without waiting for a reply the man shoved his arm under Sherlock's armpit and helped him up.

Sherlock was way too out of it to see the startled look on the man's face about his charges' state and appearance. He was dragged towards the car and had no strength left to fight the other man.

It made him feel as if he was at the mercy of the other man, helpless and after the past few days this caused and unsettling rush of disgustingly rosé panic.

As soon as the car's doors closed the limousine pulled into traffic.

The drive was a blur of colour and motion and he didn't know how long it had lasted.

To his relief they entered the glamorous building through the VIP entrance in the back, protected from curious eyes and paparazzi.

Sherlock staggered along and when someone asked him what the problem was his companion explained that he had a bit too much to drink and that everything was fine.

Later, he couldn't remember to have entered a room or what the man looked like.

In a dreamlike state or under the influence of drugs he was aware he was helped out of some of his clothes and shoved into a bed.

He partially resurfaced several times, out of his mind, in pain and disoriented, once he thought someone was trying to make him drink, another time there was cold wetness on his face and calves, but he couldn't think and didn't have the energy to care.

.

Sherlock woke when the cold wetness suddenly engulfed his whole body, caused him to gasp in panic and disorientation.

He felt his limbs were gripped and held tight - at least two people, then.

At first he thought they were trying to torture him, but then a voice penetrated through his hazy mind.

"Mr Bryner? Can you hear me?"

He tried to get out of the water, tried to reach for something to hold onto.

Was he still the river?

Water splashed loudly around him and someone cursed.

"Open your eyes," the male voice spoke with a thick east-European accent.

What is it?

Couldn't it wait, for god's sake? He needed to get out of the water first.

"Mr Bryner?"

The world was spinning around him and he feared that when he'd open his eyes it'd would get a lot worse.

"John… I don't feel so good."

"No shit," someone answered.

That wasn't John's voice.

Sherlock exhaled noisily and tried to gain a minimum of composure.

"No, don't try to get up…" the voice said, it was female, "There's no John's here. We've got you, just relax."

A hand on his biceps and he wondered if he was still dreaming.

"Sorry, but we need to get your temperature down, you've got a fever. Do you know where you are?

Not good. Almost every answer would reveal to her that he actually had no clue at all.

Who were these people?

At least they didn't seem to intent on harming him.

She continued, "Your family called and told us you needed medical attention, you are suffering from a high fever!"

He tried to remember how he had gotten there, but failed at first, then hazily remembered he had been picked up and handed something that showed him they were trustworthy. Something from Mycroft.

"Mr Bryner?"

"Hmmm?"

"Open your eyes and look at me."

"And then?" Sherlock croaked.

"And then I'll decide if to take you to a hospital or take care of you here," the man said.

Shit!

His tone said he meant business.

Sherlock forced his eyes open and found it hurt even more than he had expected. He flinched with the onslaught of light and distress.

But someone had draped a shawl over a bathroom lamp, dimmed it effectively that way.

He was in the big bathtub and the water was not exactly warm, held down by a small smiling woman who wore the uniform of a ridiculously posh hotel and a bulky man with gold teeth whose appearance screamed 'danger' immediately.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, fighting his impulse to punch the man to be able to flee.

Trying to make sense of the situation.

They didn't seem to plan to torture him...

Fever, right... they were trying to lower his temperature probably.

When his gaze scampered through the room he realised he was only in his pants and socks.

There was a lingering pale turquoise taste of exhaustion with disturbing flecks of golden panic on the tip of his tongue, it felt disgusting.

His body smacked in disgust.

"You want to drink some water?"

For god's sake, no!

Under no circumstances did he want to gulp that taste down, he wanted to spit it out, but it felt sticky and heavy in his mouth.

He tried to sit up, only to feel the grips of the strong hands tighten.

Being damaged felt already bad enough, he didn't need someone to amplify it by constantly talking about it and pointing out the deficiency every three minutes…

"That's Dr Brusinsky, you need his help. Let him do his work."

The man looked more like a mafia boss than a doctor. Everything about him made Sherlock's skin crawl and his instinct was to get distance between them immediately.

Were they really on his side? Or part of a conspiracy?

Part of Moriarty's web?

"Mr Bryner,... bend back your head... and relax."

"Hmmm," Sherlock muttered, still failing to really understand what was happening around him.

Were they trying to kill him or to safe him?

He needed to get out of their reach to properly assess the situation.

Once more he tried to get up, but he felt shaky and once more he was held in place.

"Stop that! Come on, open your eyes…" a familiar voice.

He blinked, trying to concentrate…

John?

"Sherlock? Breathe… come on…. Open your eyes….."

Sherlock struggled.

It was so hard… so hard.

"Jjj'nnn?"

Something shifted and Sherlock realized he was not involved in the movement.

"Sherlock?" John's voice. "Open your eyes, now!"

John sounded distressed.

The detective blinked once more. John entered his field vision and something touched his throat.

"God, you're with me?"

How did John get here?

He was still in the luxurious tub in the posh hotel room.

"You have a fever and pneumonia is setting in. You need to let them do their work, mate. Just let them work."

John had said something similar in the plant, too.

The memories came back of being held by the homeless man, restrained in a smelly sleeping bag while he was wet and naked... The panic the sense memory brought made him flail wildly.

It got out of hand fast, the panic skyrocketed without giving him time to even try to fight it.

"Shit!" Someone yelled, and the overwhelming stress pushed Sherlock's mind out of consciousness, because it was not able to handle that level of horror in his weakened state any longer. His body shut him down.

He blacked out immediately.

.

The hotel manageress and Brusinsky had to change their grips from holding their change down to keeping him steady when their patient went limp. His face had almost slipped beyond the high water line.

"Hand me the thermometer," she held out her hand while with the other she tried to stabilize Sherlock's head and prevent him from inhaling water, which would certainly do the pneumonia no good.

The fever had come down a bit but they decided to keep Sherlock in the lukewarm bath for a bit longer.

Sherlock didn't see how she eyed the odd doctor cautiously; he seemed to be an untrustworthy character. The manager had made it her personal responsibility to take care of this guest so she would. As soon as the doctor was not needed any longer, she would make sure he was on his way.

 _Sherlock was forced to pause for two weeks to recuperate and gather some strength, and to battle the beginning pneumonia before it would get dangerous._

 _He didn't left the hotel even once._

 _._

* * *

 _._

 _A/N:_

 _There won't be any more chapters about this particular sideline of the story. As you know those are kind of deleted scenes. The story of the dark doctor was an idea but not written by me and I don't plan to do so. More deleted scenes later. There are also a few repetitions with some things that were finally used in other chapter of the original story, just in case you are wondering why some of this sounds familiar._

 _But there are more chapters for this in store_

 _._

 _I have started to draw again, made some art for my story 'Pain Management2' and for_ Ernil i Pheriannath _'s story '_ It takes John Watson to save your life'.

It's in my new deviantart account, nickname: theceruleanfeline


	9. Chapter 9 - The Monastery - Part 1

_This and the following chapter are more Deleted/Missing Scene from my story 'Define Vulnerability'. They were supposed to explain why in my story Sherlock suddenly trusted certain aspects of traditional Asian medicine or used Buddhistic practices to deal with certain issues._

 _I removed this branch of the story because it was similar to traumatic plant scene, which was in part what caused the distress for Sherlock when he couldn't remember the plant really but also was triggered by fragments of memories. After taking this out of the story I used elements of it in the plant scene and others, therefore some of it might sound familiar._

 _._

* * *

 _._

 **The Monastery – Part 1**

One morning John found a heap of mail on the dinner table, together with a tea tray. Mrs Hudson must have brought it upstairs.

Sherlock was still asleep and John started opening the post, the detective wouldn't do it anyway.

To his surprise, he found a letter that seemed to have travelled from Nepal.

Curiously, he opened the thick envelope, remembering that Sherlock had mentioned some sort of Buddhist ceremony a few weeks ago and that he had spent some time in the Himalayas. Much to John's dismay the detective had quite reticent about it and therefore John couldn't hold back. His friend had in the past treated his privacy with contempt so he was due for bit of inquisitiveness of his own.

A piece of thicker material than normal paper slipped out when he pulled the content from the envelope and fell to the ground.

John picked it up.

It was photography, slightly crinkled from the long journey.

It showed a monk sitting somewhere outside, he was wearing the customary red attire and had a shaved head.

John was about to unfold the letter when something about the picture struck him as odd.

He looked at it again, this time concentrating on the face.

It was not an Asian man that much was clear.

It took him a moment to realise it was actually Sherlock.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed aloud in disbelief, surprising himself doing so.

He stepped closer to the window, holding the print into the light to see better.

The bald head made his friend hard to recognise, also, his face showed a rare twinkle of amusement.

"What happened?" a familiar deep voice came from the kitchen.

John turned around and saw Sherlock wrapped in a sheet – for the first time in ages. Over time, he had had quite a lot of unnerved discussions with Sherlock about wearing nothing but a sheet in the flat, trying to make him remember to change before he stepped into the kitchen.

But now, he only found it was funny and was glad things seemed to normalise again.

"Sherlock, do you like wearing sheets?" he asked, trying to hide a grin.

"It feels good, yes. The sensation on the skin that is produced by the amount of-"

John held up the picture so Sherlock could see it and it silenced the detective immediately.

Speechless, Sherlock stepped closer and stared at the picture, then plucked it and the folded letter from the doctor's fingers.

John was glad when he didn't run off to his room but sat down at the dinner table, sheet and all, and started to read.

Only now John realised the letter was actually written in hieroglyphs. He assumed it must be Nepalese or Chinese or Tibetan or something. So he sat down opposite of his friend, serving himself a cup of tea and picking up the picture again Sherlock had put down on the table while reading.

On the picture, Sherlock's feet were bare and his skin was darker than usual. His hands were holding some kind of prayer beads.

Somehow amazed he watched Sherlock read the letter. After he had reached the bottom, he started at the beginning again, but somewhere in the middle, Sherlock's eyes suddenly lost their focus.

A bit alarmed the doctor raised again, afraid Sherlock might have another episode triggered by memories the letter brought up.

.

Sherlock had retraced a branch of Moriarty's organised crime into the Himalaya, the border between Nepal and Tibet.

It was a quite large organisation that - among other things - smuggled drugs and stolen art out off and into china via the high pass borders in the Mustang area.

Most of smuggling was - surprisingly - done by foot. People just carried small amounts over the border and were paid for that, sometimes disguised as guides or even tourists.

Travel permits were not hard to get, and the 'organised groups requirement' for border crossing made smuggling even easier. The smugglers used the legal requirements and perfectly organised their crimes around it.

The small airport at Jomsom was not too far away from the Chinese border and it seemed goods were transported via there down the mountains.

At first Sherlock had considered taking a plane up to the Mustang area, but abandoned the idea because he feared it would blow his cover. Therefore, he had started to hike up the Annapurna circuit. He also needed a break from it all and hoped this would give him the chance of a few quiet days.

In addition, he was aware that he needed to be careful about adjusting to the height, he couldn't rush things. Overall, he was not in a good state of health and neither was his fitness at its best after he had spent some time in a hospital after a gone wrong mission in Russia, and before that pneumonia he had caught in Eastern Europe.

He wanted to up his fitness and the exercise would do him good, but he decided to take it slow.

He was quite sure the centre of the organisation was in a small village in which also a monastery was located.

After careful planning and reading up about monastic life he prepared to enter as a novitiate, hoping they would accept and trust him before they found out he was there on a mission or his cover was blown. He was aware it would take some time until he was accepted as a novice, but the break would help him focus on what was ahead. His mind was still haunted by what was behind him, no matter how much he tried to hide it in the deepest vaults of his mind palace.

Due to the fact that his mind palace version of John was constantly bugging him about it he was aware that he was in dire need of a break.

Going through the entire novice way could take twelve month. But to even become a novice he'd live in the monastery for a few weeks or months to learn the basic teachings and rules. After this he could ask to be taken in as a novice.

He decided that as soon as the monks had started to really trust him, he'd approach an abt or another senior he trusted was not involved in smuggling and tell them why he really was there. He'd need their help and hoped they would not approve of crime and corruption and therefore help him.

The monastery offered meditation workshops for travellers, but he would not enter it through this way, he needed an inside perspective. A taijiquan master who had fled china a few decades ago was training at the monastery, which made it also popular for Chinese people who wanted to visit him. Sherlock hoped that his martial art knowledge and his knowledge of Chinese would make it easier for him to earn some form of trust.

.

The first two weeks after arrival Sherlock blended in, he wasn't the only one applying to be a novice, there were five others that had arrived in the weeks prior. He tried to concentrate figuring out the dynamics at work among the dwellers, travellers and seniors currently there.

Following the rules was not a challenge for him, though it seemed it was for some of his fellow newcomers. At least one person was there who was not taking the whole process serious, flirting with the tourists and trying to evade the rules. It was one of the first deductions he made because it was easy. Everything else was not so easy. Body language was different in this part of the world, simple signs like nodding or shaking the head had different meanings. And although he knew all this in theory it was hard to built an entire new database of behaviour patterns filled with not only body language but also various cultural backgrounds. The monastery was a big melting pot, which made things not easy.

There was one more thing that was proving difficult that he hadn't expected. The absence of stimuli and problems to solve brought unexpected issues.

In the beginning, it was only nightmares and now and then a very strong memory plaguing him but the more he meditated and was forced to concentrate on himself, the worse it became.* Idleness was not good for him, as was boredom, which quickly set in while he was doing his share of householding tasks every monk and novice was scheduled with daily.

During the third week he diagnosed he had had three episodes of intense memories disturbing him - probably flashbacks. One meditation session he had even spent being busy only with keeping an episode of panic contained.

After that, the nights also became harder to get through, the cold added to his nightmares and was quite inconvenient. From then on being alone and focussed on himself became an issue, it felt a bit like solitary confinement just without the cell or rehab clinic.

On the other hand, the marvellously clean air, the awe-inspiring presence of the mountains around him and the positive aura the monastery had kind of soothed his sore body and mind.

Besides trying to concentrate on the lessons he consciously tried to switch off his discomforts, of which there were plenty. The cold, the backpains from his wooden cot and hours of sitting straight in meditation, the way too thin cotton shirt and wide trousers he dressed in, and the pains that still lingered in his body from his past missions. During his hike up he had been sure it couldn't be worse than living on the street, but for some reason he couldn't find it was. The worse he felt the more he used his very own mind over matter techniques to silence his transport's complaints. The 'let it pass' attitude helped him through that, also the idea to let everything negative go that was repeatedly topic in the teachings.

Fortunately, there was little need to interact socially, but enough to analyse the dynamics, though it slowed down things additionally.

He was trying to adjust to monastery life and focussing on his simulated spiritual journey that had turned – at least partially – into a real one, although he hadn't noticed it yet.

But then, things changed.

One day he started to feel very bad during the early afternoon walking meditation session.

While consciously and slowly placing one foot in front of the other, he felt the constant urge to sit down. Although the steps were relaxed and not meant to bring him from A to B, he felt he had not the energy to do them.

With each step it became more difficult.

When he finally noticed that he was swaying it was too late, a moment later his body hit the ground of the yard.

For a second, he felt hot and disoriented. Fine sand entered his eyes, mouth and nose. However, he had no time to re-assess the situation or wipe the dust away because mere seconds later blackness buried his consciousness.

.

When Sherlock regained awareness the first thing he heard was the distant lapping of water, which immediately send his mind into hyper alertness.

Much to his dismay, he was realised that his entire existence was kind of wrapped in fog. His brain wasn't working they way he should, neither was his body. His eyesight was blurry and he felt very heavy and stiff.

He tried to roll away, but found he was uncoordinated and also gently held in place by a figure half concealed in the darkness.

It took him a moment to notice the woven mat he was lying on and the smell of incense sticks, both finally made him remember where he was.

Not in Eastern Europe, Nepal – monastery – monks... He had to behave like a monk, it was the only thing that mattered right now.

Cold dry fingers shoved his long hair out of the way and pressed down on a point on his forehead. Stunned by the unasked touch and the intense, odd feeling it caused he sank back to the bunk he was lying on.

He was not in his chamber but in a larger room. It was dark except of a few candles burning somewhere.

Another hand came up with a dripping wet cloth and opened the fabric out on his bare chest. The cold was disgusting and he tried to move away from it. Without a word and much force, the man held him in place once more.

Desperately, he tried to assess his state and realised that due to how he felt that he must be running a fever.

His joints ached, as did every single muscle in his body and he was trembling from chills. All kinds of noises were way too loud, even his own movements sounded overwhelming and painfully distorted. His thoughts were not straight, slow, and mingled with what might have been dreams and memories. He felt as if he was not really in his body or present in reality. A rush of panic followed the realisation.

In addition, there was no John nearby who could take care of things, there was probably not even anything close to what he'd understand as hospital nearby. The knowledge that there was an airport a few days' march away was not very reassuring.

In his current state, he doubted he'd even make it to his room or to his satellite phone, which was carefully hidden under the dining hall of an unaware lodge owner nearby, because phones were not allowed in the monastery.

The man continued to press down on his forehead and then added pressure with another finger to a point at the middle of his hairline. For a moment, the touch made him nauseous and then it felt as if the fingers were entering his skull.

His fever addled mind tried to shove the person away, there was a burning pain in his side and the man seemed to have anticipated the move and just caught his uncoordinated hands and placed them on his chest.

Trembling, he closed his eyes. He felt weak and sick and in no state to fight back any kind of attack.

Had his cover been blown?

Aware that he needed to, he tried to formulate a plan in his mind, but before he had the chance to even check his options he heard the padding of bare feet on well worn stones, they echoed in the cold room like in an old dark church.

Someone else was coming, carrying something by the sounds of it.

The touch vanished and he realised the absence of it was as unsettling as it's appearing at first. Coldness now seeped into the now bare spot on his forehead.

Without warning, rough hands slipped under his nape and lifted his head.

When he blinked, trying to see what was happening, he stared right into a small dark bowl that was then pressed against his lips.

He hesitated, tried to think, tried to figure out what might be in the pot.

"यसलाई पिउन." He was ordered to drink in a no-nonsense tone that left no room to argue.

But the whole situation reminded him of something he couldn't grasp; but nevertheless it caused a sudden onslaught of panic, which was followed by the overwhelming urge to flee.

Finally, driven by panic, his flailing hands managed to shove the bowl away and he rolled off the cot.

The impact with the ground robbed him of his breath for what felt like an eternity.

When gentle hands picked him up with a tenderness and physicalness that were far from what he expected from any of Moriarty's men he understood the fever was affecting his ability to distinguish between friend and foe. The general darkness was preventing him to recognise the man, too.

The strong hands lifted him back onto the bed as if he was a child, it made him feel vulnerable and small.

He was panting when more than one pair of hands held his head steady and carefully instilled him with the bitter liquid.

It was no tea, that much was sure.

They made sure his head was tilted to the side and at the right angle to prevent choking and made the whole experience not too distressing for him.

The silence was eerie, though.

Whoever was trying to help him certainly wasn't of the talkative kind.

After a few moments, the slow flow of the liquid stopped briefly and then a slightly warmer liquid that tasted like tea followed the first one.

Were they giving him tea to chase down the bad taste?

"What di'you gi'me?" his speech was barely understandable even to his own ears.

No one answered, but his left hand was lifted up and his fingers were uncurled. A moment later someone started to apply pressure to his fingertips and Sherlock's panic rose.

When he tried to gently drag his hand away he found it was held tight without restraining him, the pressure just followed his movements, unaware of his discomfort.

He grunted in protest but was ignored.

Enduring the touch was difficult. As was the closeness of two people he didn't know, although, when he tried to sense the second, he realised he kept a distance.

The massaging continued, shifted to the sides of his fingertips, from one finger to the next. He flinched several times, wondering why his fingers were so very sensitive and painful all of a sudden.

Finally, even Sherlock's muddled mind provided what was happening was not preparation for torture but some kind of acupressure.

Then more dizziness combined with heavy fatigue hit him and another wave of panic followed suit.

"Wha' di' you...?" he tried once more.

Whatever he had been given, his body's reaction was strong.

Unsettled by what was happening he restlessly tried to move, but there was no escape from the nursing hands. At least he was now relatively sure whatever was happening it was not intended to harm him.

Why didn't they talk to him?

Whoever was giving him care was as persistent as John.

Trembling from exhaustion and distress, he finally gave up and tried to relax and wait it out.

"अहिले सुत्नु," a deep voice ordered and a moment later the pressure shifted from his hands to the sides of his elbows to apply pressure there, which was equally inconvenient. It took a moment until Sherlock understood he had been told to sleep now.

He didn't want to.

It was not safe and he didn't dare to trust them, all his recent experiences of violence and death were much too present to let his guard down. Even after a few weeks of peaceful retreat he couldn't shake the shadow of a constant threat to his life. The fever was worsening the sensation of being in danger as well as the healthy paranoia that had kept him alive until now.

But then he realised he didn't have much of a choice. Although he tried to fight them, leaden feebleness started to dull his awareness.

When the pressure returned to the point on his forehead it felt as if a wave of a slightly golden mist sank down onto his skin, starting from the point of touch moving outwards.

Had he been given something that caused hallucinations?

Or was his fever actually bad enough to cause them?

He felt wretched and lightheaded.

The only thing he wanted right now was _John's_ healing hands on him, John's presence that promised safeness and reliable care of his body.

The pressure intensified and the more it did the more tension left his body.

It seemed his transport was somehow ahead of him, blindly trusting the touches his mind was unable to appreciate.

A few moments later exhaustion caught up with him and he slipped into sleep.

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* * *

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 _* Sherlock is starting to show first signs of post traumatic stress he is not aware of. If you want to know what happened, go read my stories 'Lessons in Friendship 8' and 'Define Vulnerability'_

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 _There is artwork for this story. If you want to see the cover picture in a better resolution and completely visit me at DeviantArt, username: TheCeruleanFeline_

 _I'd love to get some feedback. Constructive criticism welcome._


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